


What Stays and What Fades Away

by Smutnug



Series: Juliet [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Drunk Sex, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-01-01 05:29:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 24
Words: 46,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12149625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smutnug/pseuds/Smutnug
Summary: Snippets of Solona Amell, Cullen and Juliet Trevelyan, spanning pre-Origins to the end of Inquisition.(Thanks for all your comments - I'm terrible at coming up with replies but all are loved and appreciated!)





	1. Solona

_Markham, 9:14 Dragon Age_

 

“That her?”

She didn't like this Templar, was the sister’s first thought. Greying hair held back in a severe bun, she eyed the little girl like something distasteful and possibly dangerous. The downward curve of her mouth spoke of a permanent expression of disapproval.

“Yes Ser, that's the child.” Solona was blissfully unaware of the Templar’s regard, curly brown head bent over her game of cloth dolls.

“You let her have toys?” The woman's eyes narrowed. “Why is she talking to herself?”

“It’s what children do at that age.”

“That,” the woman said, gesturing with her sharp chin, “is not a child, Sister. It’s a temptation to evil, and a danger to all around it. _A mage is fire made flesh, and a demon asleep.”_

 _Blessed are the peacekeepers._ The sister schooled herself to calm. “She’s shown no sign of magic.”

“Yet. Five children, Sister. Remind me how many have been transported to Circles?”

“Four, Ser Templar. But - “

“And this the youngest. It’s only a matter of time.”

The sister’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Where will you take her?”

“Ferelden, as you well know. It matters not where, she won’t be there for long. Another orphanage, until she’s moved to the tower.” The Templar sniffed. “Were it up to me, we’d take her straight there. Better yet, lose the little abomination overboard on the crossing.”

Shocked, the sister glanced at the junior Templar accompanying the hard-faced woman. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, but the tiny shake of his head reassured her - they were tasked with delivering the babe to Ferelden, and would be held accountable if she didn’t arrive in one piece.

“To think what that family has fallen to.” The older Templar looked almost regretful. “They were nearly rulers of Kirkwall, now look at them - criminals, wastrels and apostates all.”

“Will you change her name?”

“Why bother? The name Amell means nothing in Ferelden.”

“Didn’t Lord Aristide’s daughter run away to Ferelden?” The sister regretted her words as the Templar fixed her with a steely gaze.

“If the apostate Hawke hides in Ferelden, the Order will bring him to heel. And the whore who shelters him will meet the same fate as this one’s heretic father.” Her gauntleted fists clenched and unclenched. “Now. Bring the girl. We will not make the ship wait.”

The sister crouched down next to little Solona. “Are you ready to go, sweetling?” The child regarded her with solemn blue eyes, before raising her pudgy arms. She picked her up, breathing in the smell of her softly curling hair. Solona spared a glance for the dolls abandoned on the floor, then popped a thumb into her mouth. Such a placid child - at least she wouldn’t give the Templar cause to be cruel, if the woman needed any excuse.

A moment’s hesitation and she passed her to the younger Templar, tiny fingers curling in his tabard. “Her things.” It was a pitiful bundle, smallclothes and stockings, a spare smock.

“The child can’t walk?” The senior Templar blinked, incredulous.

“Of course she can, Ser, but - she’s two years old.”

“They won’t coddle her in the Circle.”

 _All the more reason to coddle her now._ Thankfully, the man broke in. “She’ll be slow, Ser. We’ll never make it to the docks in time, even if she can walk that far.”

Lips thinned, the woman hesitated before nodding. “We’ll take her from here, Sister. You need not fear for the safety of your charges any longer.”

 _I fear for only one of them,_ the Sister thought, _and she’s in your hands now._

“Walk in the Light,” she replied, hand extended in a blessing she hoped would also reach the child. Wide blue eyes watched her over the Templar’s shoulder, until the Chantry door swung closed behind them.

_Maker, watch over her. Keep her safe, keep her strong. What you have created, no-one can tear asunder._

 

* * *

 

 

_Kinloch Hold, Dragon Age 9:17_

 

Two robes, taken up at the hem. Smallclothes and a nightshirt, thin leather shoes. A cheaply bound book with pages of blank vellum, in which she practiced her round, childish handwriting. These things were hers, and nothing more - although in truth, even the robes would be taken away when the hem could no longer be let down, replaced with larger robes of identical cut and colour. Given to a smaller apprentice if one came along, but for now she was the smallest.

It suited Solona to be small. To be small was to be beneath notice, and to be noticed was never good. Not in the Tower, where the Templars were always watching. Not in the Chantry orphanage, where the older children had whispered and pinched, where they had finally surrounded her crying “Mage! Mage!” until the Sisters had come and locked her away, and soon after the Templars had arrived to transport her, on horseback and finally over the lake, to the Circle.

It was a circle, corridors going round, round, up and up. Endless stairs that made her small legs burn. Adults in robes, talking over the top of her head. “How old is she? Where is she from? How strong is she?”

Not very, she could have told them. She couldn’t carry a bucket of water on her own. She was from the Chantry, next to the marketplace where the other children were permitted to go sometimes, kindly strangers giving them a copper to spend on a sweet or a spinning top. She watched it from the window, the Sisters keeping their raggedly dressed charges in an orderly line, discouraging small fingers from grasping at fruit or scraps of lace. She wouldn’t have taken things from the market stalls. She would keep her hands tucked in her skirts, keep out from under the feet of the busy men and ladies of Amaranthine. Amaranthine, that was where she was from. Near the ocean, she glimpsed the glittering blue-green water when she rode out of the city gates, face pressed to a Templar’s back.

Here all the children were treated the same - none of them could go outside. If anything her magic was a disappointment to her fellow pupils, more of a spark than a storm. But at least they weren't afraid of her - “baby” was less of a barb than “demon” or “abomination”. As for “mage”, here it wasn't even an insult.

So she listened, practiced, kept making round, childish letters on the blank vellum until she could form sounds and words, until the books in the great library proved to hold a world bigger than the tower, bigger even than Amaranthine and the glittering ocean. Until she knew how powerful a spell needed to be to get by in her lessons without attracting the jealousy of her peers or the attention of the Templars. Until the robes were re-hemmed and re-hemmed and finally replaced, until she could take the stairs two at a time, but only when nobody was watching. Until the orphanage was a dim memory, and the Circle was home.


	2. Cullen

_Kinloch Hold, 9:29 Dragon Age_

 

There was a peace to be found in the corridors of the Circle Tower after dark. For the first few weeks, Cullen had patrolled with his hand on his pommel, alert to each sound or movement. When maleficars had proven to be in mercifully short supply he had become progressively less vigilant, until he quite enjoyed the solitude of the night patrol. Not that the Circle was particularly raucous at any time, but actively watching the mages always made him feel self-conscious. He wasn’t sure what was more uncomfortable, their barely concealed resentment or the whispers and giggles of some of the younger apprentices.

A Templar was a holy warrior, charged with protecting the world from demons and abominations. A Templar should not blush and stammer.

The mage-lamps and their unflickering light had made him uneasy to begin with. Now they were just part of the scenery, much like the mages themselves in their blue and yellow robes, or the tightly controlled spellcasting that would take place in the library.

The library. It wasn’t part of his patrol tonight, but his rounds took him past the heavy wooden doors. Among some of the templars - unworthy of the name, he privately thought - library patrol was a coveted duty. “More likely to catch some randy mage with his hand up a girl’s robes,” they snickered in the common room. “Don’t interrupt ‘em too soon, you never know what you might see.”

Cullen’s ears burned red just thinking about it. If he were to stumble upon such a thing, Maker forbid, he wouldn’t be lurking in the shadows like a pervert. He’d put a stop to it at once, take the offending mages’ names and send them back to their quarters. Curfews were to be taken seriously, order was to be taken seriously. He would not blush or stammer. He would not.

“Ser, please.” The female voice came from behind the library doors, a note of panic creeping in. “Please, I have permission.”

“Quiet, girl. If you want me to strike you, keep talking.”

Against his better judgement, Cullen pushed the door open. Two faces swivelled towards the noise, but he had eyes for only one - a pair of wide blue-grey eyes set in a pale face, a silent plea.

“What’s going on?” he asked as casually as he could. The terrified girl’s hands were spread flat on the surface of a table, while a Templar gripped her waist hard, scowling at Cullen.

“This mage is breaking curfew.”

Eyes carefully downcast, the girl protested. “I have a note from the First Enchanter. He asked me to fetch a tome from the library.”

Cullen swallowed. Questioning one’s superiors was a sure way to get into trouble, but he didn’t like the way the man’s hand travelled over the curve of the apprentice’s hip. “Have you seen this note, Ser?”

“Stay out of this, recruit.” He groped the girl’s thigh, and she looked on the verge of tears. “If the note exists, I’ll find it.”

“I told you Ser, it’s it my pouch. On my belt.”

“Shut up, mage.” The templar raised a gauntleted hand and the mage flinched. “I won’t warn you again.”

Cullen could see the pouch - it certainly wasn’t near her thighs. He was under orders to stay out of it, but - “It’s there, Ser. I can see it.” A corner of vellum poked out beneath the flap. When the man ignored him, he darted forward and seized it.

“Apprentice Amell is assisting me with gathering research materials,” he read aloud. “To this end, she has my permission to visit the library after curfew.” He cleared his throat. “Today’s date, Ser.”

“Give me that.” The furious Templar snatched the note from his hand, scanning the spidery lines. “Why didn’t you say as much, stupid girl?” Amell was silent, her eyes fixed on the table. “Hurry up then.” His bleary eyes narrowed on Cullen. “You’re not needed here, Recruit…?”

“Cullen, Ser.”

“Back to your patrol, Cullen.”

Seized by a sudden madness, Cullen addressed the mage. “Did you find your book, apprentice?”

“I…” Her eyes flickered nervously between the two Templars. “Not yet, Ser.”

“I'll wait and escort the apprentice back to the First Enchanter’s office,” he told the surly Templar. “I'll make sure she doesn't get up to any trouble.” He was pleased to hear his voice didn't shake, anger temporarily overcoming his nerves.

“Suit yourself.” The man hunkered down in his armour, shamelessly ogling the Amell girl where she stretched to reach a high volume.

“Here.” She was startled to find Cullen at her side. “This book? The red one?”

“Yes, Ser.” He handed her the tome. “Thank you.” Those big eyes met his, and he knew she meant the words for much more than the book.

“Come on then,” he said more brusquely than he intended.

Back in the corridor, he tried not to notice the sway of her hips beneath the blue robe. Her thick brown hair was tamed into a braid over one shoulder, wisps escaping at the nape of her neck.

“Does that happen often?” he asked.

“No.” She glanced back at him nervously. “I'm not usually out after curfew. I was helping Irving, and it got late.”

“That's not…” He trailed off. The girl knew what he meant, and he couldn't force her to answer. Sometimes no answer was information enough.

“I didn't see you pass earlier,” he ventured.

“I move quietly.” She spoke quietly too, her eyes fixed on the floor.

“Next time come and find me - I could escort you.” He cleared his throat. “I mean you don't have to, obviously, but it would be safer…” Was it wrong for him to suggest that a mage might not be safe in the presence of other templars? He felt uncomfortable criticising his superior, even by implication. “I patrol here every night.”

“I know.”

“You…?” He scratched his neck, flustered. “I'm Cullen.”

“Yes.” She looked back at him again, her face grave. “I'm Solona.”

 _Solona Amell._ “It's a pleasure to meet you.” They had reached Irving’s door. Cullen had met the First Enchanter once or twice - he seemed a kindly man, polite. “Do you…like the First Enchanter?”

“Like him?” She considered this for a moment, twirling her braid in a way he found endearing. “I suppose I do.”

“Good.” She deserved kindness, this pale girl with the serious blue-grey eyes.

“I should…” She opened the door a crack, waiting for his dismissal.

“Of course.” Should he bow? Salute, in the manner of one templar to another? He settled on an awkward wave. “Good night, apprentice.”

 _Call me Solona,_ he imagined her saying. But she just nodded, her grave eyes flickering to his face and away. Then the door closed and she was gone.


	3. Juliet

_Trevelyan Estate, 9:23 Dragon Age_

 

“Juliet? What is it?”

“I had a nightmare.”

“Again?” Her mother raised a tousled head from the pillow.

“Move over, Clara. She can sleep with us.”

“She's six, George.”

“Exactly. She's a child.”

“Mama?”

Clara sighed. “Come in, then.”

Juliet clambered into the big bed, curling up against her mother. “Thank you, Mama.”

“Tell your Mama about this silly nightmare.”

She opened her eyes, remembering. “I was alone. And then a lady came, and wanted me to go with her.”

“It doesn't sound so frightening, my pet.” Clara was already drifting back to sleep.

“She had dark eyes. And horns.”

“Horns? How terrible.”

“It didn't feel like a dream, Mama. It felt real.”

When there was no answer she lay awake, listening to the soft sound of her parents’ breathing until dawn.

 

* * *

 

 

“Who are you talking to, little pumpkin?”

Juliet froze. “Nobody, Papa.”

Bann Trevelyan rose from his desk and crossed the library, kneeling before his small daughter. “But I heard you, pumpkin.” He smiled indulgently. “Do you have an imaginary friend?”

Juliet eyed her shoes. New shoes, of soft blue leather with bows. Why would she want what the voice offered, when she already had so many pretty things? “She’s not my friend.”

“Oh, she’s not?” A tiny frown marred her father’s face. “Does she have a name?”

_Desire._

“No.” She shuffled her feet. “She’s not real.”

“Of course she’s not.” He ruffled her hair. “Haven’t you been cooped up in the library with your boring old papa long enough? It’s a nice day outside. What do you say we go down to the kennels and see if Rose has had her pups yet?”

She beamed, taking his outstretched hand.

 _I don’t need anything from you,_ she thought at the voice that nudged the edges of her mind. _I like things as they are._

 

* * *

 

 

The pups had begun to walk on stumpy little legs, crawling over Juliet where she sat cross-legged on the ground.

“Are they really Rose’s pups?” she asked her older sister, skeptical. “They don’t look like her.” Rose was a hunting dog, pointy and gangly with a wiry coat.

“All puppies look like this,” answered Lavinia with the superior knowledge of ten years. “And you shouldn’t sit on the ground, you’ll soil your dress.”

She shrugged. “It’s not my best dress.” A pup chewed on her fingers with needle-sharp teeth and she giggled. “Can I keep one, Vini?”

The older girl sniffed. “What for? A baby like you can’t take care of a hunting dog.”

“I can!” she said, outraged. “Papa’s dog is the same, and all he does is sleep.”

“Griffon sleeps all day because he’s a hundred years old, and lazy. Besides, why would Mama want a puppy underfoot when she has you?”

“I’m going to ask Papa,” Juliet resolved.

“And he’ll let you, because you’re his favourite.”

“Am not.”

“Yes you are, _pumpkin._ You’re Papa’s little baby.” Lavinia nudged a puppy with her foot, watching it tumble over in the dirt. “I don’t care - Mama likes me more.”

It seemed true. Juliet didn’t mind - one for each seemed fair. With four children, a parent could hardly be expected to like them all the same. Mama’s favourite was Michael, anyway, twelve years old and destined to be a Templar. And Papa’s real favourite must be Alec, because he was a boy and the oldest, and would be Bann some day. He couldn’t be Bann if he wasn’t the best child, she reasoned, and at fifteen he was strong and brave and good with a sword. He was her favourite as well, but he was a squire somewhere near Wycome, miles and miles away.

“I like this one best,” she declared, looking at the little pinprick marks left on her hand.

 

* * *

 

 

Drakon grew into a lanky puppy with more enthusiasm than grace, constantly tripping over his own long legs. Vini teased her about his lack of coordination but she knew all the pups in the litter were the same at that age, tumbling and rolling over each other in the courtyard.

“He’s a fine dog,” said Michael on one of his visits from the Chantry. “Too good to be a little girl’s pet, at any rate.”

“He’s not a pet.” Her small hands clutched a piece of rope, Drakon tugging furiously at the other end. “He’ll hunt with the other dogs.”

“And the rest of the time he’ll sleep on your bed and take treats from your plate.” Michael laughed scornfully. “You’ll make him soft.”

“He’s not soft. He’s fierce.” The pup growled in assent, shaking the rope hard between his teeth.

“You shouldn’t let him play like that. He’ll turn vicious.”

“How can he be soft and vicious?” She didn’t care for Michael’s opinion - the kennel master said tug was a good game for a hunting dog, and Drakon could already release the rope right away if requested to do so.

“You don’t know anything,” her brother retorted, a clear sign he had lost the argument. “Wolfhounds are dumb, anyway. One day I’m going to have a Ferelden Mabari.”

“I didn’t know Templars could have dogs.”

“Well I will.”

“Stop talking about boring dogs,” Lavinia complained. “I thought you were going to walk us into the village. I need to buy ribbons.”

He rolled his eyes, but Juliet knew he was more than happy to stroll along the road to the village in his Templar apprentice uniform, basking in the admiration of the farm girls along the way. He puffed out his chest, the hero Templar protecting his younger sisters from danger. “Come on then, squirts.”

 

* * *

 

 

She sat on the floor in the library, Drakon’s shaggy head resting in her lap as she played with his floppy ears.

“It’s true, Papa. He was going to run under a cart wheel, and then there was a shield all around him. A glowing shield.” Red-faced with shame, Michael glared at his little sister. “Everybody saw.”

The commotion had proven too much for Lavinia, whose sobbing had finally turned to hiccups. “Are we going to be arrested, Papa?”

“No, Vini, we won’t be arrested.” There was a tension in her father’s voice that belied his words. “Run along now to the kitchen. Cook will make you some hot milk.”

Nobody was offering her hot milk, Juliet noticed. As she noticed the way her father moved behind his desk when her siblings were gone, a barrier between them.

“It’s not the puppy’s fault, Papa.”

“I know, little pumpkin,” he said sadly. “Nobody will punish him, I promise.”

“But I’ll be punished, won’t I?”

When he met her gaze, she was alarmed to see tears in his eyes. Papa didn’t cry - he was the Bann, he was her Papa. Worse, he looked afraid.

“Are you scared of me, Papa?” Her voice trembled.

“It’s not a punishment, pumpkin.” He avoided her last question. “It’s to keep everybody safe. To keep you safe.”

“I’m safe.” Tears spilled from her eyes now, stupid baby tears that Drakon licked away with his warm tongue. “I promise, Papa, I’ll be safe. I won’t do it again.”

“It’s not up to me now.” He glanced away. “You’ll go and live somewhere else. With people like you.”

“If it was up to you, could I stay?”

“I’ll send your Mama in.” He stood shakily, seeming suddenly much older than he had been. “You won’t leave right away. But soon.” He reached to touch her hair, flinching away at the last second. “I’ll see you before you go.”

 _I can help you,_ Desire whispered. _You can stay, if you just let me help you._

“Go away,” she mumbled. “This is all your fault. I hate you.”

She couldn’t be sure, but she thought the demon laughed. _I’m all you have now, child. I’m the only one that loves you._

Drakon wriggled in her arms, desperately licking her face. “Liar,” she said, squeezing him until he whined in faint protest. “I don’t need you. I don’t need anybody.”


	4. Solona

_Kinloch Hold, 9:29 Dragon Age_

 

_“Please,” she cried. “I'll be missed - somebody will come looking for me.”_

_Sounds of revelry drifted over the tall hedge, laughter and low chatter and the merry music of the orchestra._

_“By the time they find you, you'll be virgin no longer.” His calloused fingers roamed beneath her skirts, over the top of silk stockings to caress the bare expanse of her creamy thighs._

_“My maidenhead belongs to the Duke,” she protested weakly, and he laughed cruelly. It wasn't the foppish Duke she wanted, they both knew as much._

_“Were it not for me, my lady, your maidenhead would belong to a half-dozen bandits on the road to Montsimmard.”_

_“You are my bodyguard.” His breath was warm against the slender column of her neck - oh, how she wished to feel his lips devour her alabaster skin! “This is not proper - “_

_“Proper?” He drew back and gripped her chin, his dark eyes flashing. “Since when do you care for what is proper, Marguerite? You have wanted this from the moment we met. Deny it, if it is not true.”_

_She could not. “Kiss me, Antoine,” she breathed. His sensuous lips curved in triumph. “As my lady wishes.”_

_As his mouth closed hungrily over her virginal rosebud lips, she felt the hard press of -_

 

“What are you reading?”

“Oh!” Startled, Solona dropped the book. As she scrambled from the bench to retrieve it, Cullen’s gauntleted fingers closed over the slender volume.

“Here, let - “ His brows knit. _“To Guard Her Heart.”_ Before she could protest, he had opened up the book and begun flipping through the flimsy pages. “What - oh. Oh Maker's breath.” He snapped it shut, face mottled pink.

“I found it,” she said. It was true - the book had fallen behind the cushions on the cosy bench where she liked to study - but she still felt ashamed.

“Well.” He attempted a smile, handing the book over gingerly as if it were unclean and possibly dangerous. “I didn't think it was an official part of the library.”

“Is it forbidden?” she asked shyly.

Cullen cleared his throat. “Well I'm not sure it's quite appropriate for a young lady…but I don't know of any rules against it.”

“It's just…” Solona dropped her head, blushing. “It's terribly written, and I'm not sure I'm interested in all those heaving bosoms and straining - anyway - it's just different. Dances, and dresses, and gardens…it's an escape, I suppose.”

“Escape?” His eyes narrowed at her choice of words.

“As close as I'll ever get to trying,” she assured him. Sensing a change of subject was in order, she settled back onto the cushions. “Have you ever heard an orchestra?”

“An orchestra? No, I don't think so. Minstrels, but not an orchestra.”

“Have you been to a ball?”

His laugh startled her. “No. No, that's not me. There were precious few balls in Honnleath.”

“Oh.” Solona traced the filigreed writing on the cover, an innocuous blue leather. “That's not how people live, then. Outside.”

“Some do. Nobles.”

“You're not noble?”

“No.” Again she must have amused him with her naivety. “Common as dirt.”

“I'm sorry. You just seemed…” Embarrassed, she fell silent.

“Don't be sorry,” he said softly. “I've been called worse.”

“Cullen!” Their conversation had caught the attention of the templar’s sharp-eyed superior, who now gestured curtly to the boy.

“I - I must go,” he stammered. “Enjoy your reading. I mean - “

“Goodbye, Cullen.” She smiled gently. “I'll find something more appropriate to study.”

“Good. Do that.” Stiff-backed, he walked away, and with a sigh of regret she tucked the book away in her satchel.

 

* * *

 

 

The words Solona was copying began to swim together on the page, and she found her head drooping.

“You’re tired, child,” Irving observed from behind his desk.

“I’m fine.” She slapped her cheeks lightly. “I just have these last few pages to finish.”

“Off to bed with you,” he chided. “The books aren’t going anywhere. And neither are we.”

“No,” she agreed.

He must have caught something in her tone, for his shrewd old eyes narrowed. “Is that a hint of bitterness, apprentice?”

“Bitterness? No.” Regret, perhaps, for what might have been, but not bitterness. “I’m happy here.”

“Yes.” Irving steepled his fingers, discomfited. “I should - your... _closeness_...with one of the templar recruits has been remarked upon.”

“Closeness?” she asked, incredulous. Of course it must be Cullen - he was the only one who would give her the time of day. “I’m civil to him, if that’s what you mean. And he to me.”

There was sorrow in the old man’s face. “Be careful, child. The boy is young. Even if you do not form an attachment, his feelings could compromise you both.”

“He doesn’t have _feelings_ towards me.” She was roused to uncharacteristic insolence. “What do you suggest, that I should be unfriendly? Doesn’t that have the potential to get me in more trouble?”

“Peace, child.” The First Enchanter held out his hands in a gesture of appeasement. “It is a thin line we must walk, sometimes. I will fret for you less when you have passed your Harrowing - in the meantime, please indulge an old man and take care.”

The injustice stung. “All I’ve ever done is take care,” she replied, blinking against the prickling behind her eyes. “I don’t know what more I can do.”

Irving rose from his desk. “You have always been a sensible girl,” he said. “More so than some twice your age. And you have never given me cause to doubt you.” He gathered up a small stack of books. “I apologise if I spoke out of turn. Here, take these back to the library, and we’ll forget this conversation ever took place.”

Somewhat mollified, she watched as he wrote out a permission slip with shaky hands. “Write large,” she suggested. “Some of these templars have poor eyesight.”

“Now, now,” he said. “The templars are here for our protection, too. You can understand why some of them might be a trifle over-vigilant.”

Solona remembered the way the sweaty templar had clutched at her thighs, and suspected Irving’s own experience of templar vigilance might be somewhat different from her own. She sighed.

“Thank you, First Enchanter.” Tucking the note away, she was careful to let the end of the vellum protrude from her pouch.

 

* * *

 

 

Predictably at this time of night, the corridors were empty of mages. Somewhere in these halls a templar patrolled - most likely Cullen, this was his shift. Irving’s words came back to her and the angry flush returned to her cheeks.

She had nothing to be ashamed of. She hadn’t so much as initiated a conversation with him, certainly hadn’t done anything that could be construed as flirting! He was - what, a friend? Could a templar be a friend? She wouldn’t be so reckless as to risk both their futures on more, even if he wanted to.

But if others could misconstrue her intentions, what about Cullen himself? What if, unknowingly, she had led him on? Was it safe to let him find her alone in the deserted corridor? If he seemed honourable when others were around, did that necessarily mean that he wouldn’t press his advantage on a mage who was smaller and weaker than himself, one who might accidentally have given him reason to think -

_Oh._

She wasn’t alone. Approaching an alcove leading to a curving stairwell, she heard the muffled sound of voices. Then sighs, a hastily stifled gasp.

There was no other way to the library, not without changing floors twice and walking most of the way around the tower. Solona slipped into the shadows close to the wall, moving quietly - if she was quick, they’d never know she was there.

Her eyes flickered into the dark alcove - just to check she was unseen, she didn’t want to know what was going on back there. But the image was seared into her brain before she could look away - an impression of robes hiked up around waists, bare legs tangled, slender fingers wrapped around a swollen - oh, _Maker, look away._ Face burning, she hurried on.

The steady, unmistakable tread of boots approached from the direction of the library. Suddenly the wet noise of flesh meeting, the muted panting and moaning, seemed the loudest sounds in the world - he must hear it, he must, and they’d be punished. With a silent apology to the ancient texts in her arms, she tripped and let the books fall, skidding over the flagstones.

The rutting couple fell silent. The boots halted, then picked up pace...it was Cullen, rounding the curve in the corridor, his expression changing from worry to relief to concern.

“Are you alright?” He bent to help her retrieve the books, no easy task in his rigid suit of armour.

“I’m fine,” she assured him. “I tripped, but I didn’t hurt myself. I’m more worried about the books.”

“I don’t think they’re harmed.” Smiling, he offered her a hand up, shaking his head when she would have taken the texts back. “It might be best if I carry these, don’t you think? These old floors can be uneven.”

“You’ll fall harder than I will,” she retorted.

“Ah, but I won’t fall.” He offered his arm, then thought better of it. “Heading for the library? I’ll walk with you.”

“That’s not - “ She remembered the tryst in the stairwell - if they had any sense, the lovers would have disentangled and hidden further up the stairs, but there was no point in taking the risk. “Thank you. I’d appreciate the company.”

“You would?” Cullen’s eyes lit up, and she cursed herself.

They walked in silence, the books sitting awkwardly in Cullen’s plated arms.

“So.” He cleared his throat. “You and - is it Jowan? - seem close.”

“Jowan?” She shrugged. “He’s a friend. We grew up together. He’s like…”

“A brother?”

“Brother.” The word was unfamiliar on her lips. “I suppose. I wouldn’t know.”

“You don’t have family?” Cullen stopped before the library, unsure how to open the door with his arms full of books.

“Let me.” Solona ducked under his elbow. “No family,” she confirmed as she pushed the heavy door open. “None that I know of.”

“I’m sorry.” He laid the books down on a table as gently as he could manage. “It must be hard.”

“Hard?” She thought about it. “I’m not alone. I share a room with what, twenty people?”

“Me too.” Cullen smiled. “It’s enough to make you wish you were alone, sometimes…”

An awkward silence fell. Solona snatched up a book, searching the shelves for its home. “Do you have family?”

“Yes. My parents. Two sisters, and a brother...I haven’t seen them in a while.”

“Do you miss them?”

Glancing back, she saw the struggle in his face, the unwillingness to admit to any weakness before a mage. Finally he answered, “Yes. We write, but it’s not the same - well, you know.”

“I don’t,” she admitted with a smile. “But I have a good imagination.”

“Of course,” he said, and again, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s life.” The last book shelved, she dusted off her hands and turned to face him. “No family, no possessions, no connections. Those are the rules.”

“Yes.” Cullen straightened, falling back into the templar pose. Feet apart, hands behind his back. “If you’re done here, apprentice, I’ll see you to the dormitory.”

Looking into his amber eyes, Solona nodded brusquely. Distance...distance was for the best. “Yes. We’re done here.”


	5. Cullen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: suicide mention

_Lake Calenhad, 9:30 Dragon Age_

 

Cullen couldn’t help but wonder if Solona would have enjoyed the hustle and bustle of the docks on market day. It was a festive affair, bright awnings set up over the stalls and ribbons fluttering in the light breeze. The Spoiled Princess had taken advantage of the sunshine to set up tables outside, and even the serving girls wore smiles - under the watchful gaze of their wives, the local farmholders were less handsy than usual.

The crowd was somewhat overwhelming even to Cullen, after the quiet of the Tower. A running child collided with his leg and was quickly shepherded away by her mother, muttering apologies.

“Why is she nervous?” he wondered aloud. Could the child be a mage? He watched them suspiciously until the blended into the crowd.

“Maker, Cullen, it’s a day off!” Gerrett clapped him heartily on the back, sending ale sloshing over the side of his mug. “Stop looking for apostates! As if you need more little mage girls to fret over.”

“Little - “ The child and her mother forgotten, Cullen glared at his templar brother. “What do you mean by that?”

“Nothing at all, recruit. Nothing at all.”

Across the lake, the Tower loomed stark on the horizon. Every now and then he would catch a market-goer glancing in its direction, making a quick sign to ward off evil. The inn staff, accustomed to living in its shadow, barely spared it a thought. To Cullen, arriving a year ago fresh from a secluded refuge in the West, it had seemed the most imposing building in Thedas - now he knew the relative banality of life in Kinloch Hold, it was merely his home.

“I’d like to get out of sight of that thing once in a while,” Gerrett griped. “Have a few days off, or a week. Enough to visit home. Or travel to Denerim! I’ve never seen the capital.”

“Nor I,” Cullen said absently. Home would be good. He’d missed Mia’s wedding, she’d written herself to tell him as much - Branson would be nearly a man grown, and Rosalie far from the fat-cheeked child he’d left behind in Honnleath. His parents, too, weren’t getting any younger.

“I’m for food.” His fellow templar drained the last of his ale and patted his belly. “Proper market food - something fried in oil and stuck on a skewer. Are you coming?”

“In a moment.” Cullen nodded at a dwarf beneath a green and gold awning. “I’m going to look at books.”

“Books!” Gerrett rolled his eyes. “You spend half your life standing in a library, what d’you need more books for?”

“Arcane technique makes for dry reading.”

“Well don’t be too long. If we miss the late boat, Kester won’t be back until nightfall and we’ll have no choice but to drink ale all afternoon.”

“You’d hate that, I’m sure.” Cullen tossed him a copper. “Here, get me something on a skewer as well. If it’s meat, make sure you can tell what kind - I don’t have a taste for rat.”

“Picky,” his friend groused, but he grinned before sauntering off.

The dwarven bookseller looked him up and down with a practised eye. “Templar, eh?” He gestured to a stack of thick books. “Got martial history here. Chantry texts. Or…” he winked. “Got a drawer full of dirty etchings. Ladies, men, all sorts.”

“No, no thankyou,” Cullen stammered. “I’ll just...I’ll browse, if that’s alright.”

“Suit yourself.” The dwarf shrugged. “Let me know if you change your mind. Got some new from Rivain - saucy sorceresses, if you catch my drift - “

“Thankyou,” he said stiffly. “If I need any help, I’ll certainly let you know.”

He had assembled a small pile of history volumes when a title caught his eye, bound in scarlet leather. _The Rose of Orlais._ Curious, he picked it up and flicked through the pages.

 

_With an animalistic growl, Garren seized the front of her bodice and ripped, her alabaster breasts spilling free into his eager hands. Talia’s outraged gasp changed to a moan of pleasure as his lips closed over -_

 

“Maker’s breath,” he muttered. It couldn’t all be like that, could it? Guiltily he flipped the pages forward, a different passage catching his attention.

 

_Talia lay back on the satin pillows, her raven locks surrounding her like a cloud._

_“Let me sheathe your sword, my noble chevalier,” she whispered huskily._

_Her crimson lips parted as he invaded her inner sanctum -_

 

He snapped the book shut with a squeak, finding the dwarf regarding him with a raised eyebrow. “Did you want to buy that, young Ser, or are you happy just to read the whole thing here?”

Cullen shoved the book into the middle of his pile. “How much?” he asked, blushing. “It’s, er, for a young lady. My - my sister.”

“Your sister?” The dwarf snorted. “Takes all kinds. For those…” he eyed Cullen’s templar regalia. “Four silvers.”

“Fine.” He all but threw the coins at the dwarf, aware that he was expected to barter but wishing to do nothing but disappear and hide the offending book in the deepest recesses of his pocket.

“A pleasure, ser.” The bookseller offered an irreverent half-bow. “I do hope your sister enjoys the gift.”

 

* * *

 

 

He found her in the gardens, the last of the afternoon sun illuminating hints of copper in her brown hair. On her knees in the dirt, she seemed to have filled half a basket with various grasses and flowers.

“Cullen!” She looked up in surprise, pushing strands of hair back from her face with her wrist. “I almost didn’t recognise you, without all the - metal.”

“You look a little unusual yourself.” Black dirt stained her fingers and the knees of her robe, leaves and twigs having somehow found their way into her braid.

“I’m gathering herbs.” She pointed to a reddish flower with spiky leaves. “Is that embrium, do you know?”

“That’s a weed.”

“Oh. A good weed?”

“Just a weed. Here.” He crouched next to her. “These are elfroot.” A pile of leafy green plants, pulled up by the roots and discarded. “These in the basket are...grass, grass...dandelions, if I’m not mistaken. Spindleweed, you can use that. Rashvine. Ivy - I’m not sure that has any purpose, but I could be wrong?”

“No.” Solona pulled a face. “I’m not meant to collect ivy.”

“I think embrium might only grow in the glass house.” Cullen helped the crestfallen mage to her feet. “Couldn’t the tranquil do this?”

He saw her small flinch at his careless use of the word tranquil, then her smile returned. “They could, and they might do a better job of it. But then I wouldn’t have an excuse to be down here in the sunshine, would I?”

This made Cullen unaccountably sad, despite the carefree way in which she said it. His eyes fell to her forearms, the sleeves of her robes pushed up almost to her elbows. “You’re burnt!”

“Burnt?” Solona inspected the reddened skin in wonder. “Did the sun do that?”

“That, and your nose.” A tiny scatter of freckles had already appeared beneath the pink. “You should wear a hat, if you’re going to make a habit of this.”

“I doubt they’ll send me again when they see what’s in my basket.” She touched the skin of her arm again, marvelling at the heat that radiated from it. “Do you mind if…?”

“If what?”

“I just wanted to cool it down, but...magic would be quickest.”

“Oh.” Cullen hesitated. An apprentice shouldn’t use magic unsupervised...but he was a templar, wasn’t he? Off-duty, but a templar nonetheless, and she had asked permission. “Go ahead,” he said with more surety than he felt.

Fascinated, he watched a cool glow form beneath her fingers, the angry redness drawn out of the skin until her pale complexion was restored.

“That’s useful!” he remarked, impressed.

“We can be useful.” Solona’s mouth twisted, not quite a smile. “It’s why they let us live.”

“I didn’t…”

“I know, I know.” She bent, shaking loose dirt off the discarded elfroot before placing it in her basket. She glanced at his tunic, recognisably templar attire but not his usual armour. “Is it your day off?”

“Yes. I’ve been over the lake to the markets. Which reminds me…” Embarrassed, he hesitated, but now she was waiting curiously for him to finish the sentence. “I got you something.” Digging deep in his tunic, he retrieved the scarlet-bound volume.

Solona hesitated, staring at the gift.

“It’s a book.”

“So I see.”

“I haven’t read it,” he said hastily. “But I think it’s like your other book...it has balls, and things. Dances, I mean. Orlesian stuff.”

She wiped her hand on her already filthy robe before taking the book gingerly between thumb and finger. “You didn’t have to get me anything, Cullen.”

“I didn’t,” he said quickly. “I was buying books for myself, and this...came with them. It’s not the sort of thing I’d read. Not that I’ve read it. Don’t even know what it’s about, in fact.”

“Orlesian stuff.” She arched an eyebrow at him. “The title gave it away, I suppose.”

“Well that or it’s a botanical book. That’s something you might find useful.”

Solona laughed, shaking her head. “Thank you, Cullen. Nobody’s ever given me anything - not to keep.”

“I won’t make a habit of it, I promise.” He glanced at her sad collection of herbs. “Here, let me show you where the glass house is and I’ll help you sort the healing plants from the poisons.”

 

* * *

 

 

He'd been present at many Harrowings now, but they still made his guts grip and his palms sweat. For every few that went smoothly there was one that ended in varying degrees of trauma. He’d seen three mages awaken with cloudy eyes, snarling and hissing before they were dispatched by the waiting templars. One of those had panicked and botched the strike, two templars ending up frantically hacking at the possessed girl until she lay dead in a mess of blood. Once a young templar tasked with the killing blow had broken when the ritual went too long, on the verge of running the boy through before Greagoir had ordered him to stop and wait. Minutes later the mage had awoken, clear-eyed and human. One girl had simply gone into the Fade and never woken up - a weak heart, Greagoir said. Unforseeable.

Then there were the Harrowings that never happened - once they went as far as assembling in the chamber, only for the mage to collapse on the threshold, begging to be made tranquil instead. One apprentice, a quiet elven girl, had been found hanging from a knotted bedsheet rather than face either outcome.

These were the Harrowings Cullen thought of when he was summoned to the chamber at the top of the tower, his armour and sword polished to a fine gleam. A sign of respect, Greagoir told them in no uncertain terms - if these mages were to face the possibility of death, the least they could do was make an effort to uphold the dignity of their station.

The Knight-Commander paced before them now, finally coming to a halt. “Cullen.”

His stomach sank, but he kept his spine straight and his eyes to the front. “Yes, ser.”

The first few times, Greagoir would have asked him to recite the signs of demonic possession. The protocol for a Harrowing that went overtime, or how to proceed if the signs seemed ambiguous. Now he just nodded his head, satisfied.

Once, Cullen had struck the killing blow - the first and only time he had ever killed a man. Not a man, he reminded himself. An abomination. When that moment came, the mage was already dead and his sword was like the sword of mercy, bringing the end with a final, clean thrust through the heart. Physically, it hadn’t felt very different to a training dummy.

“Bring in the mage,” the Knight-Commander called.

Feet apart. Arms behind your back, wrists crossed. Not on your sword pommel, there would be time for that if needed. Don’t frighten the mages more than necessary. Breathe.

The chamber doors opened and his stomach dropped.

 

* * *

 

 

Was he unfit to be a templar?

He'd stayed silent when he recognised her. Hadn't broken formation, even when she fell to the ground unconscious. If she hadn't come through it so quickly, perhaps his resolve would have faltered. Like the young templar but instead of running at her with a sword he would have run to her side, shaking her until she woke up.

Because this was wrong, he realised as he watched her crumpled on the stone floor, her eyelids twitching. To use mages as bait, to send them alone and defenceless against a demon - all those failed Harrowings, those rites of Tranquillity, and why? What did it prove, in the end?

Then she'd stirred, sooner than anyone expected and his hand had fallen to the pommel of his sword because she had failed, she must have failed and everything was lost, for nothing. Until her eyes opened and they were _hers,_ the blue-grey of a storm in summer.

Cullen turned over on the narrow bunk. What time was it? The harder he tried to get to sleep, the more it evaded him.

Then she'd found him in the corridor, and even after like a fool he'd admitted that he'd been ready to kill her just hours earlier, she'd asked him if he wanted to talk somewhere in private. And like a bigger fool, he'd panicked and stammered and told her it would be inappropriate.

To the void with it all, it _was_ inappropriate. And dangerous, and irresponsible, and all he could think about. Lips parting, and breasts spilling free - damn that filthy book, he never should have opened it!

_Perhaps she just wanted to talk. Did you think of that?_

But there was a line of thought even more dangerous, for it led to more thoughts like _What's the harm?_ and _Perhaps you should find out?_ and _What would she do if you kissed her?_

Enough! Next time he saw her he should find out what she wanted. She trusted him enough to ask, and trust was important in a mage-templar relationship. Not relationship, that wasn't the right word…association. There would be no kissing. Not unless she wanted to.

Groaning, Cullen buried his face in the pillow.

 

* * *

 

 

There was an odd atmosphere the next morning. Cullen caught more than one of his fellow templars looking at him strangely, and wondered for a moment if the lack of sleep had changed his appearance somehow. Was it his hair? The curls could be unruly first thing in the morning, but surely everyone was used to it by now.

“I don't suppose you've heard.” Gerrett drew him aside. “Amell has joined the Wardens. She left last night.”

“The...the Wardens? You mean the Grey Wardens?”

“What other Wardens are there, Cullen? That Duncan conscripted her. Greagoir is furious.”

“But what…” None of this was coming together in a way that made sense. “Why is he furious?”

“Because she helped a maleficar destroy his phylactery and escape,” his friend said as if he were somehow simple for not knowing. “She should be on her way to the Aeonar now, not Ostagar.”

Cullen’s head was swimming. “If this is your idea of a joke…” he growled.

“I'm sorry, Cullen.” Gerrett placed a hand on his shoulder, not without sympathy. “Mages. You just can't trust them.”


	6. Juliet

_Ostwick, 9:33 Dragon Age_

 

“You look well, little sister.”

Juliet wasn't sure if she felt well - the carriage ride from the Circle had left her tired and queasy, and nerves had made her unable to stomach breakfast.

 _This is your home,_ she told herself sternly. _Your family. Why should you be nervous?_

Lavinia, on the other hand, looked very well, radiant and smug with pregnancy.

“I'm glad you could visit for Alec’s wedding. It would have been nice to see you at mine…”

“I couldn't leave the Circle yet last year,” Juliet explained. “I hadn't passed my Harrowing.”

“I don't know what that even means,” her sister pouted, “but it was very disappointing. My dress came from Val Royeaux, you know! Lady Darrow said I was the prettiest bride Ostwick had seen since the Blessed Age.”

“I'm sorry I missed it.” She couldn't remember the last time she had felt this out of place - her robe was so drab compared to Lavinia’s lavish dress, the sitting room furnishings, even the livery of the servants.

“Well never mind that now. What are you wearing?”

“This?” She smoothed the plain fabric over her knees. “It's my robe, we all wear them.”

“Not that, silly thing - what are you wearing to the wedding?”

“Lavinia!” Their mother broke out of her apparent trance, her porcelain cup clattering against its saucer. “You know she won't be at the wedding!”

“I don't know any such thing, Mama! Why is she here, if not to go to the wedding?”

“To see her brother and sister, of course.” Clara glanced at her and quickly away. “Isn't it lovely to have her visit?”

_And my parents? I'm right here, Mama. You can speak to me instead of around me._

“Where's Papa?” she asked.

Lavinia shrugged. “He was around this morning.”

“Your father is busy. He'll see you when he can.”

“There's no hurry.” Juliet looked down into her untouched cup of tea. “It's only been ten years.”

“We wrote!” Her mother's lips thinned, her voice shaking. “I don't have to listen to this. I'll speak with you when you've calmed down.” She placed her cup down delicately and stalked out of the room, leaving Lavinia wide-eyed.

“Maker's breath!” she swore. “I haven't seen her like that since - well. Not in a long time, at any rate. Anyway!” She leaned in conspiratorially. “Tell me about life in your Circle. Is it true the Bann of Inveresk’s son lives there too?”

“Willard? He arrived a few years after me.”

“That's funny. You know, the two of you might have been betrothed one day if you weren't - you know.”

Juliet sighed. “You can say ‘mage’, Vini. It's not a bad word.”

“Not where you're from, maybe.” She giggled. “What's he like?”

_Handsome. Funny. Cruel._

“He's nice enough.”

“Nobody's called me Vini in years! It's so good to have my little sister back, even if you are a _mage.”_ The last word was whispered, with a guilty sideways glance at the waiting servants.

Juliet smiled. “It's good to be back,” she lied.

 

* * *

 

 

It was her room and yet not. The view was the same, over the gardens. The wallpaper, even the bed, she thought, although the linens weren't familiar. Every trace of her had been removed - the dolls, the dresses in the wardrobe, the little rocking chair in the corner.

And why not? That little girl was long gone. This was a perfectly serviceable guest room, and she no more - perhaps even less - than a guest in this house.

 _Willard._ Those dark, laughing eyes, the ready smile, the way he'd singled her out for attention. In another world they might have been married, he'd said as much in his efforts to get inside her robes, and somehow it had worked. A messy, uncomfortable fumble in the empty dormitory and within the week she'd seen him courting another girl.

_I meant everything I said. We had fun, but it's not like we're going to be sweethearts…we're mages, Juliet. That's not for us._

The heartbreak had faded quicker than the blow to her pride. What hurt most, though, wasn't the casual way he'd discarded her, but the truth of what he'd said. Something she'd taken as fact until a Bann's son with dark eyes had turned her head with thoughts of what might have been.

Well she could play at that game too. There were plenty of young men in the Circle who admired her, and plenty of dark corners and idle moments in which mages might indulge themselves…if she couldn't have the life she'd been born into, she'd take advantage of the only freedom she'd been given - the freedom to misbehave.

There was a furtive knock at the door, and without waiting for an answer Lavinia poked her head in.

“I brought you some proper clothes. From my old wardrobe, so they might not be quite the thing now but they'll be better than…whatever that is you're wearing. And this!” She unfurled a finely embroidered silver-and-blue dress.

“What's that for?” asked Juliet.

Lavinia rolled her eyes. “For the wedding, of course.”

“But I'm not going to the wedding.”

“Nonsense.” Her sister held the fabric up against her with a critical eye. “Yes, this should suit you well. You won't be able to attend the ceremony, of course, but dress you up enough and hide you in the gardens somewhere and Mama never need know you were there.”

“Hide me in the gardens?” she said skeptically. “Like an ornament?”

“Don't be silly. Everyone knows the best bit of a party happens in the garden. Now, I'm going to send my maid to do your hair after mine - such thick hair!” Lavinia exclaimed with envy. “And your face, must do something about those freckles. Then while everyone is away watching the boring part - “

“The marriage?”

“That's what I said - you'll go down to the gardens and wait for the party to begin.”

“By myself?”

“Not for long, in this dress.”

 

* * *

 

 

That was how Juliet found herself in a tastefully low-cut dress, her hair elegantly twisted and pinned, loitering amongst the topiary and orange trees of her parents’ summer garden.

She was a little light-headed, having missed breakfast again after the awkwardness of last night's dinner. Mama had spoken around her and Papa seemed reluctant to so much as glance in her direction after his first stilted greeting. Her brother Alec had been courteous enough and Vini’s young husband surprisingly charming, but still she couldn't shake the feeling that her presence was the reason for everyone's discomfort.

Alec had taken a moment to come and see her before he left to be married. “Sorry you couldn't come, Jules. You know Mama.”

“Not really,” she'd answered impulsively and he'd given her an awkward half-hug, muttered something that might have been, “It's not your fault.”

She hoped his bride was nice. A younger cousin of the Margrave of Ansburg, Lavinia said - a touch plain for Alec in her sister's estimation, but he seemed to like her well enough. She'd meet her eventually…perhaps tomorrow, when things had quietened down and she didn't have to be hidden away any longer.

The daylight was beginning to fade when she heard the first strains of music drifting from the windows, then the doors opened and people began to spill onto the lawn. From behind a statue Juliet watched them, richly-dressed lords and ladies mingling on the manicured grass as servants weaved between them with trays of long-stemmed glasses.

“Juliet?”

Startled, she turned towards the speaker. “Do I know you?”

“No.” He was her own age, dark-haired with sharp green eyes. “But Lavinia told me to bring you this.” He held out a glass of wine, bubbly and straw-coloured, and after a moment’s hesitation she took it.

“You know my name.” The bubbles floated up her nose on the first sip, making her blink. “What's yours?”

“Simon de Hugues,” he said with a bow.

“Orlesian?”

“From Wycome, actually, but yes. My father's family was from Orlais. My mother is the bride's aunt.”

“And you know Lavinia?” They only ever had watered-down wine in the Circle - already the drink was going to her head.

“Everyone knows Lavinia.” Simon’s eyes crinkled when he smiled. “How about you? You have the look of a Trevelyan.”

He didn't know, then. “I'm a cousin. Distant. From far away.” She drained her glass. “Why, what did Lavinia tell you about me?”

“Only your name, and that you're shy.” He leaned against the statue, appraising her. “But you don't seem shy.”

Guests had begun to disperse through the gardens, some of them glancing curiously at the girl in the blue dress as they passed. Juliet remembered suddenly that she had barely eaten all day, perhaps the reason a single drink was having such an effect on her.

“Is there anything to eat up there, Simon?” she asked.

“You could come up with me and find out,” he said hopefully, but she shook her head.

“I can't. Shy, remember?”

He hesitated. “Will you wait here?”

“No,” she answered, and Simon looked crestfallen for a moment before she nodded to an ivy-covered pergola farther down the garden. “I'll wait there.”

He returned with a plate piled high with food and a bottle hidden inside his coat, and they had a picnic of sorts sitting side-by-side on a stone bench, hidden from view of the party up the hill.

“How old are you?” she asked.

“Seventeen. And you?”

“Sixteen.”

“Are you going to tell me why you're really hiding down here?”

“Probably not.” Juliet leaned forward, aware of how his eyes were drawn to the tops of her breasts. “Unless you ask very nicely.”

His tongue darted out to wet his lips. “Please?”

“I'm not supposed to be here.” She shuffled closer under the pretext of reaching for the wine bottle, and refilled her glass.

“I could have done that for you.”

“I like to do things for myself.”

“So why aren't you supposed to be here?”

“Because they're ashamed of me.”

“Of you?” His eyes travelled over her face. “What could they possibly be ashamed of?”

“I'm a bastard,” she lied. “Are you very shocked?”

“Shocked?” he laughed. “Hardly! I don't see why it should matter at all - “

She placed her glass aside and kissed him.

A moment’s hesitation, then he was returning the kiss with surprising skill, his hands encircling her waist.

Was this what her sister had planned, when she sent him to find her? She found she didn't care. Here in the arms of a stranger she was finally wanted.

“You're beautiful,” he broke free to gasp and she hushed him.

“I don't need that.”

“It's true,” he protested but he was silent then, letting her guide him to what she did need. His hands roaming her thighs under the full skirts of her dress, his mouth trailing kisses along her bare shoulders and neck.

“I'm not sure we should…”

“We should,” she said decisively, placing his hand on the curve of her breast.

“Juliet,” he whispered. “Please don't tease me.”

“Does it have to be teasing?” Lifting her skirts she climbed into his lap, kissing him more urgently. “It's nothing I haven't done before. Why, are you…?”

“No,” he gasped. “But not like this. And not with a noble lady - “

“I'm neither of those things.”

“But you are.” Simon seized her wrists and gently, reluctantly, he disentangled himself. “I'm sorry. It's not that I don't want to.”

Just her luck - it seemed she could only find a boy who respected her when it was the opposite of what she wanted. Separated from his warmth, she shivered.

“Are you cold?” he asked, already shrugging off his jacket.

“A little,” she admitted.

“Here.” He draped it around her and she snuggled into its warmth. “I didn't think I'd meet someone like you here.”

“Like me?”

“You're more real than any of the girls I know.” He brushed a stray tendril of hair back from her face, and she leaned into his touch.

“We've spoken half a dozen words,” she reminded him gently. “The only real thing you know is my name, and I didn't even tell you that.”

“I don't care. There's something different about you.”

“Yes. It's my willingness to let you put your hand up my skirts.”

“No,” he protested. “Don't do that. Don't make it seem like less than it is.”

“It's nothing, Simon,” she insisted. “This, now, this is all we have.”

“Who is your father? I could court you - I could ask to see you again - “

“Court a bastard? I don't think so.” Uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze, she stood and straightened her dress. “Enough of that talk. Will you walk with me?”

Gracious in defeat, Simon smiled. “Why not a dance? We can hear the music well enough from here.”

“I don't know this dance,” she admitted.

“You don’t?” He seemed surprised, and she kicked herself, realising she'd given too much away.

She may as well stick to the truth. “I don't know any dances.”

“A Trevelyan who doesn't know how to dance? You are a rare creature.” He held out his hand. “Come on then, I'll teach you.”

Full dark fell over the estate as he led her, stumbling and giggling, through the steps of each dance. Light spilled from every window of the house and strings of lanterns from Nevarra illuminated the gardens, lit by servants with long tapers.

“You're a quick study.” His hand was warm on her waist. “I think you must be a Trevelyan after all. Juliet?” She had frozen, staring in the direction of the house. “What's wrong?”

“Someone's coming.”

“Mama!” a voice called. “Mama, wait! Calm down!”

“Don't tell me to be calm!”

“Fuck.” Juliet glanced around, a trapped animal searching for cover. “Oh please, Mama, no.”

“Mama?” Simon said, confused.

“Juliet!” Her mother descended on them in a flurry of skirts, Lavinia scurrying in her wake. “Get inside, now!” Her furious gaze fell on Simon. “Lord de Hugues? I apologise, but I must insist you leave us.”

“Juliet?”

“Please, Simon.” She couldn't meet his eye. “Go.”

“You weren't in your room,” Clara continued, unable to contain her anger a second longer. “And this! This is your dress, Lavinia! Is this your doing?”

“Mama, it's harmless. It's one night, nobody even knows she's here - “

“And drinking! How could you allow her to drink?”

“Don't be silly, Mama, she's older than I was when - “

“Never mind how old she is, stupid girl! Who knows what might happen? She's a _mage!”_

A cold feeling settled in the pit of Juliet's stomach. She was aware of Simon staring at her. What would she see in his face - anger, confusion, pity? Fear, like her father? She didn't want to know.

“Goodnight, Lord Hugues.” She curtsied deeply. “I'm afraid I must go now.”

“Mama, please,” Lavinia pleaded. “Juliet, wait…” Hurrying after her sister, she clutched at her sleeve. “Juliet,” she said apologetically, “his coat.”

“Oh.” Hands shaking, she wriggled out of the too-long sleeves. “Will you give it back to him, please?”

“You could…”

“No. I can't.”

Curious guests glanced in her direction as she made her way back to the house, Clara marching silently a few steps behind. It wasn't until they were safely upstairs that her mother spoke again, her voice trembling on the verge of tears.

“How could you ruin your brother’s wedding like this?”

“Ruin?” she said, incredulous. “It seems to me everyone is still having a good time down there.”

“Don't you make a joke of this. You've no idea the scandal you might have caused.”

“I wasn't the one making a scene!”

“It's a privilege to be here. You're in our care, you can't just wander wherever you like - “

“I didn't go anywhere, I never left the grounds!”

“You were to stay _in your room.”_

“Clara.” Bann Trevelyan ascended the stairs. “People can hear you.”

“Maker forbid,” Juliet muttered.

“Mama, there's no need for this.” Lavinia peered up anxiously from behind her father. “It was my idea.”

Clara wasn't to be distracted. “You can't help but cause problems, can you? After the trouble we went to to bring you here - “

“Why did you bring me here?”

 _“What_ did you say to me?”

“Why?” Juliet persisted. “You don't talk to me, you barely look at me, you don't want me leaving my room - what am I even here for?”

“It's your brother's wedding!”

“And you don't want me here!”

“No, I don't!” her mother shouted. “You don't know what you've done to this family. It's your fault Lavinia had to marry some merchant, not the Teyrn’s son - “

“Mama! Edwin and I are perfectly happy - “

“And it's your fault Michael had to transfer to Kirkwall instead of being stationed at the Ostwick Circle. He has to work twice as hard as anyone, because of what you are. He should have been here today, not you! You've torn this family apart, destroyed your father…”

“That's _enough_ , Clara.” The Bann took his wife by the arm. “We have guests downstairs - they'll be wondering where you've gone.”

“Look at her, George! She's not even sorry.”

“Go on, Clara.” With a final glare for Juliet she made her way back to the party, and he turned to their eldest daughter. “You too, Lavinia.”

“I'm sorry,” Lavinia said. “I didn't mean to get you into trouble. I didn't know she felt that way, not like that…”

“It's fine, Vini.” Juliet smiled weakly. “It was fun while it lasted. Thank you for the dress.”

Her father was the last one remaining. He looked at her then, finally looked at her.

“You've grown, haven't you?”

She shrugged. “It's been ten years, Papa. Of course I've grown.”

“Do they treat you well?”

“They do. It's not a bad place.”

“Juliet…”

“I'm going to bed now.” The borrowed slippers were beginning to pinch her feet, and she suddenly felt more tired than she could ever remember being. “You should get back to your guests.”

“We could talk tomorrow, if…?”

“Actually, I was wondering if you needed the carriage tomorrow.” She turned towards her room, already pulling the pins free from her hair. “I think I'd like to go home.”


	7. Solona

_Ostagar, 9:30 Dragon Age_

 

“Those are eight silver,” the quartermaster said, and after a moment’s confusion Solona handed over the single gold coin Duncan had given her.

“That’s worth more than a silver, isn’t it?”

The man grinned, taking in her travel-stained Circle robes. “It is indeed, young lady. Here’s your change.”

“Wait a minute!”

Solona flinched at Alistair’s angry tone before he appeared at her elbow, arms crossed over his chest and a frown on his handsome face. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “Duncan told me to buy some new boots - are these wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong with the boots.” The junior warden glared at the quartermaster. “How much coin did you give him?”

“Eight silver.”

“No, how much did you _give_ him?”

“One of the gold - “ What were they called again? “Coins.”

“And you gave her two silver in return.”

The quartermaster scowled. “Two silver to begin with. I’m still counting out the rest.” He reached for a chest beneath his trestle table, neat bags of coins nestled within.

“Do you know what a sovereign is worth, Solona?” Alistair asked, his tone kinder for her. “The gold ones.”

“Not exactly, no,” she admitted, and he sighed.

“One sovereign is worth a hundred silvers. So if these boots are eight silver, you should get back…?”

“Ninety-two silvers. I’m not a simpleton, Alistair, I just didn’t know…”

“Now you do.”

He waited impatiently for the quartermaster to finish counting out the rest of her change.

“It’s a lot of coin for the young lady to carry,” the man said hopefully. “Are you sure there’s nothing else she needs to buy?”

“Not from you.” The humiliating transaction finalised, Alistair took her gently by the elbow. “I can see I’ll have to keep an eye on you. Now, let’s get you some decent clothes.”

“Wasn’t that the place to buy clothes?”

“Armour, perhaps. You did the right thing getting boots there, whatever we have will be too small, but the wardens must have some decent robes lying about. Dress as one of us and you’ll be less likely to be taken for a fool.”

He sensed her bristle at the implied insult and stopped still, at once apologetic.

“Look, I’m sorry. You can’t be expected to know how everything works all at once, given where you’ve come from. Duncan must be distracted, to have turned you loose with no more instruction than ‘buy boots’!”

“He told me to find you,” she said, “and I did. But I didn’t think I should bother you with something like that.”

“It’s no bother,” Alistair replied, his ready smile reappearing. “At least, it’s less bother to know you need help in the first place than to have to run around rescuing you from unscrupulous merchants.” He looked her up and down. “Now, that robe won’t do. A mage can stop a blow if she sees it coming, but a surprise arrow will tear straight through that. Not to mention it will get caught on every root and branch in the wilds - you’d be marching around in your smallclothes by nightfall! I mean - “ Blushing, he cleared his throat. “Let’s get you kitted out, before we find Duncan.”

A trunk of odds and ends in the warden camp yielded a serviceable pair of leggings and a lightly padded undertunic, its bulk serving to make the borrowed man's surcoat look less huge on her slight frame.

“Here,” Alistair said, passing her an embossed leather chestpiece. “It won’t stop an axe, but it could be the difference between an arrow piercing your lung or not. It’s not really built for - ahem - “

“Women?”

“Exactly!” he said, visibly relieved at avoiding any mention of breasts. “But it will do for now. And by the time the Joining’s done your new gear might be ready.”

“Thank you.” Solona clutched the mismatched items to her chest. “Now if you could…not keep an eye on me, for a moment?”

Alistair stared at her in confusion before blushing. “I'll be outside the tent,” he said. “If you need any help, uh…just try to get most of it on first.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Shame about your dress, but I like the leggings.” Daveth ran his eyes shamelessly over her new ensemble. “You and Alistair seem to be getting friendly.”

Solona jerked the surcoat down to cover her knees. “What do you mean, _friendly?”_

“I mean I saw you both go into that tent before.” He leered. “Playing a little mage-templar game, were we? Bringing in the naughty apostate for questioning ?”

“I'm not an apostate,” she snapped. “And he's not a templar.”

“Oh, he's not?” Daveth’s eyebrows went up. “My mistake.”

This was a waste of time - Duncan was waiting on them, and she was trapped in a tent alley by a lecherous fool. She pushed past him, ignoring when he called out after her.

“You didn't say you're not naughty!”

 

* * *

 

 

So here they were. A nearly-templar warden and a nearly-warden mage, a cutpurse and a knight, out in the Wilds with dark fast approaching.

“We should make camp,” Alistair decided.

“Here?” Jory’s eyes darted around in his soft face. “It's practically a swamp! And the darkspawn could ambush us at any moment!”

“It's only going to get damper from here,” the warden sensibly pointed out. “And…spawnier.”

“Afraid of a few darkspawn, Ser Knight? Best run on back to Highever.” Daveth leered at Solona. “So, our first night together. About time, eh? Lucky you, out here with all the boys.”

“I am a married man!” Jory protested and the rogue laughed.

“All the more for the rest of us. You sharing a tent with me then, sweetheart? I could show you a thing or two they don't teach you in that Circle. Clever fingers, y’know.”

“Enough.” Alistair glared at him, his jaw clenched. “How about you put those clever fingers to work in building a fire, then you can put up the tent you'll be sharing with Jory.”

Daveth scowled. “I bloody knew it,” he muttered for Solona’s ears only. “Templars and mages. Can't keep their bloody hands off ‘em. Let me know when he gets tired of you - I don't mind another man's seconds.”

She ignored him and he trudged off to find some relatively dry kindling. Jory sat to sharpen his sword, still glancing nervously towards the forest.

“Won't a fire draw darkspawn?” he asked.

Alistair shrugged. “It might. But then we'll get what we came for. Take first watch, if you're worried.”

Solona was unfolding a mysterious bundle of canvas and poles that was somehow meant to provide them shelter for the night. Alistair crouched next to her, helping to unfurl the tent.

“Is Daveth bothering you?” he asked quietly.

“That depends. Am I allowed to electrocute him?”

He laughed - not such a templar after all, then. “Just a little. Not enough to kill unless you really have to.”

“Then no,” she answered solemnly. “He's not bothering me.”

 

* * *

 

 

They hesitated when it came time for bed. The tents were built to accommodate two, but not with much space for modesty. Solona was used to dressing and undressing in the presence of men - the Circle dormitories weren't, after all, separated by gender - but Alistair’s discomfort was palpable.

“I'll go in first,” she offered. “And you can come in when I'm in my bedroll. I won't look.”

Even this was enough to send a pink flush over the junior warden's cheeks. “I could sleep in the other direction, if you'd rather.”

“I'd rather not have your feet in my face.” She had already taken off her chestpiece and was kneeling to unlace her boots. “But thanks for offering.”

“Right then.” Realising he was watching her undress, Alistair turned away. “Call out when you're ready.” Across the campfire she heard Daveth’s guffaw.

“I could let you know when she's - “

“Shut up, Daveth. You're on second watch.”

Solona made sure the cutpurse saw her smile before she ducked inside the tent. Let him think they were up to something in here - the thought of him sitting up frustrated, torn between listening for danger and straining his ears for the sounds of wanton pleasure, tickled her more than it should.

“You can come in now.” She tucked the blankets up to her chin and rolled to the side, eyes fixed on the water-stained canvas. Alistair entered silently and she heard him fumbling with his splintmail armour.

If this were _The Rose of Orlais_ she'd turn to him now and let the blanket slip down to her waist, and he'd cage her with his hard, muscled body, his eyes - what colour were they? - burning with desire…

But this wasn't a book, and romance took place in four-poster beds, whatever those were, atop silk sheets. Not in a musty tent beneath scratchy blankets with the smell of damp socks permeating the air. She didn't want Alistair - didn't want anything except to survive this, and the battle, and whatever nonsense the Maker chose to throw at her next.

And _The Rose of Orlais_ was wedged inside a copy of _A Treatise on the Fade_ in Irving’s office, back at the Circle. Back at the Circle with her old life, and the man who'd gifted the book to her, the one who probably hated her now, the one she wouldn't think about.

Alistair had settled in beside her with a sigh.

“Alistair?”

“What is it?”

“I wouldn't really electrocute someone. That was a joke.”

“I'm not a templar, Solona. You can joke. And I didn't think you would do that.” She heard him shuffle uncomfortably in his bedroll. “But…you know, you can defend yourself if you need to. There'll be more like Daveth and they won't all be harmless idiots.”

“We're not allowed to use magic against - “

“You're not in the Circle now, and you're not an apostate.” She rolled over - she couldn't see his face, but she heard the conviction in his voice. “You'll learn other types of combat but at the end of the day you're a mage, and magic is your weapon. And if that's how you need to defend yourself, the Wardens will have your back.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Somewhere an owl screeched, and Solona flinched. The sounds of the outdoors took some getting used to after a lifetime of confinement, and here in the Wilds everything seemed somehow closer, louder, more dangerous.

“Solona?”

“Yes?”

“Duncan told me the story - how you came to be conscripted. He believes you were there for the right reasons, or at least thought you were. And that's good enough for me.”

“I didn't know,” she said, her voice catching. “I was trying to help, I thought…”

His hand sought out hers in the darkness, squeezing her fingers quickly before letting go. “Regardless, when you join us the past is the past. You don't belong to the Circle now, or the Chantry. Nobody's going to send you back.”

“What if I fail the Joining?”

Alistair took a long time to reply. “Whatever happens, you won't be sent back.” He turned from her, pulling the blanket up over his shoulders.

“Alistair?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”


	8. Cullen

_Kinloch Hold, 9:30 Dragon Age_

 

It was hard to say how it began.

 

Screams. Feet pounding on the stone floor, the ring of drawn steel. Screams. The stench of blood and sulphur, a ripping, tearing, burning pain. Screams.

 

 _I can make it stop._ He could block his ears, cover his eyes but when he looked again she was still there. _I can give you anything you want, Cullen. Rest. Peace. Me._

 

Gerrett had died first, cleaved almost in half by one of those…things. His once-laughing eyes clouded and sightless and his blood had swirled in the air, surrounding the mages in a red miasma as they laughed, drunk with power.

 

The pain was constant, like red hot needles under his skin. _Doesn't it feel good, Cullen?_ Her lips trailed along the underside of his jaw. _Having me inside you? Give in and it won't hurt any more. We'll be one - I'll be buried in you and you in me. That's what you always wanted, isn't it? To be buried in me._

 

Sherard was next of his friends to die, the youngest of them. He'd stuttered and begged, offered them whatever they wanted if they'd just make it stop. But Uldred had found him wanting and the rest of them had been forced to watch as he was eviscerated.

 

Mostly she just taunted him with visions. Parted lips, quivering flesh, bodies writhing together in ecstasy, arousal mingling with the pain until the two were indistinguishable in his fractured mind. _This is what you wanted._ Bent over the library table with her robes around her waist. On her back, silenced, unable to move as he unbuckled his armour.

“I didn't…that's not what I wanted.”

_It doesn't excite you?_

Maker help him, it did.

 

Clyde was a younger son of…who? Some Arl in the Bannorn. He couldn't say how long he'd been without lyrium and small details were beginning to slip his memory. Clyde had been on the stuff longest and by the time they sacrificed him he saw relief in the man's eyes as the blood drained out of him. At that stage, Cullen still hadn't wanted to die.

 

It was another sort of torture, his craving for the blue mineral consuming his waking hours. The rake of demonic nails over his skin was a blessed distraction from the headaches that plagued him. Thirst that his meagre rations of water could never quench, hands that were white with cold, fatigue that wore down his defences until it was only sheer bloody-mindedness that kept him from becoming thrall to a demon.

 

Teige had always worked twice as hard as most of the templars, determined to prove herself. She wouldn't yield, not when they threatened her, not when they cajoled her, not when they tortured her. In the end a frustrated Uldred made her die slowly, made her watch as her blood was used to summon more demons. Demons that were bound to the broken bodies of mages to become twisted abominations. He could recall her screams as a weeping mage child was transformed in front of her, the little girl’s flesh tearing and mutating until she was unrecognisable even as human. Those screams had gone on and on, and when she had finally fallen silent he was glad.

 

They spared no one. Except Cullen, alive in his gently humming cage, only the weight of his armour keeping his kneeling body upright.

“Please,” he begged. “Please, just let me die with the rest.”

_But I want you, Cullen. Just say you're mine and all this will end. We can be together._

Flashes of another life - she was sprawled naked in unmade sheets, moaning his name as she touched herself. Gazing up at him with her soft pink lips wrapped around his cock. Crawling on all fours with shackles around her ankles, bruised and sobbing. Sitting beside him on the farm porch in Honnleath, her fingers entwined in his and her belly swollen with his child.

“Lies!” he cried. “Make it stop, please! Please, Solona.”

_Mine, Cullen. You're mine. It's just a matter of time._


	9. Juliet

_Dearest Juliet,_

_I hope I am the first to tell you that you have a fine, strong nephew. I wanted to call him Julien but Edwin thought that might antagonise Mama… I told him that was half the point and we nearly quarrelled! Anyway, his name is George, after Papa, and we just adore him to bits._

_I'm sorry again about what happened with Mama. I just know if she'd had time to cool down she would have apologised - I do wish you would have stayed longer. Alec's wife was most disappointed she didn't get to meet you. She's a sweet little thing, really._

_Edwin and I would be glad to have you stay with us in the city, but of course it would need to be approved by the Chantry. I'm not sure what the process is but I promise I'll look into it._

_Simon de Hugues won't stop asking after you - I do believe you put a spell on him, you naughty thing! He was absolutely bereft to find out you weren't allowed visitors, but he wishes me to ask your permission to write to you. I think you should let him, I do believe he's in love with you!_

_Love from myself, Edwin and baby Georgie,_

_Lavinia_

 

_Dear Lavinia,_

_Congratulations to you both on the new arrival, I'm sure you will make wonderful parents. I do hope one day I can meet little George but it is rare to be allowed out of the Circle, so please do not get your hopes up. Don't fret on my account, I'm kept busy with my studies and I'm quite happy to be amongst my own kind and not a source of embarrassment to my family - at least not a visible one._

_Please don't bait Mama on my account, I'm sure I've caused enough damage for one lifetime. I suspect if I'd stayed longer it might have resulted in permanent injury to one of us - although I shouldn't say so in writing, the templars might take it as a threat!_

_Don't encourage Lord de Hugues. There is nothing between us and no hope for more, and it would be cruel to let him hope otherwise. Tell him not to write, tell him I'm in solitary confinement or dead or whatever it takes to get such foolish ideas out of his head. I suspect you will see this as a challenge, Vini, and I beg you not to meddle - he's young and well-to-do and if he's not encouraged, some girl or other will turn his head within the week._

_All my love to your little family,_

_Juliet._

 

_Juliet,_

_I regret that the Chantry is unwilling to release you into our “custody”, as they so charmingly put it. Georgie is very disappointed - he's unable to express it with much more than a spit bubble, but I'm his mama and I can tell these things._

_Also disappointed is your beau Simon - now before you scold me, I haven't encouraged him in any way but I think it's very romantic, like something out of a novel._

_Papa asked me to let you know that Drakon died. I told him you probably didn't even know that smelly old dog was still around, much less alive, and why not write and tell you himself? He just gave me this terribly wounded look. I believe he transferred all his love for you onto that ridiculous puppy, but Edwin tells me that's a silly notion._

_Do write often!_

_Love,  your sister Lavinia_

 

* * *

 

 

_Ostwick, 9:36 Dragon Age_

 

“Oh Maker…quick, I'm nearly there.”

Juliet’s fingers carded through the fair hair of the man between her legs and he picked up his pace, fingers pumping fast in and out while the flat of his tongue pulsed hard against her. She came silently, head falling back on the stone wall.

“Fuck,” she muttered. “That was…oh.”

Lewin grinned up at her, rubbing his jaw. “You want to get that look off your face before a templar comes along. You look like you caught the wrong end of a smite.”

“There's a right end?” Still breathless, she helped him to his feet, smoothing her robes back down. “We should both get out of here - it smells like sex.”

“Forget something?”

“Shit.” She reached down for the smallclothes hooked around one ankle, wriggling them back into place. “Thanks for that.”

He peered around the corner - the coast was clear for now. “Same time next week?”

“I'll be here.” She leaned in to kiss him on the cheek, cupping him through his robes. “Next week is your turn.”

“As if I've forgotten.”

She waited a moment for him to head down the hall before turning in the opposite direction. Of the handful of mages she trusted enough for these furtive trysts, he was her favourite - attractive, discreet, and with no apparent desire to muddy the waters with feelings.

Perhaps most importantly he was efficient. He could get her off with a minimum of fuss and they'd be clothed and gone before the next patrol came along. Time was of the essence if they didn't want to be caught, and for the risk they took it wouldn't do to leave unsatisfied. 

“You there! Mage!”

She turned around, coolly meeting the eyes of a young templar. “Me, ser?”

He'd look much prettier if he didn't scowl like that. “What are you doing on this floor?”

“I have a private lesson with Senior Enchanter Lydia,” she answered, letting the hint of a smile play around the corners of her mouth. “Same time every week, ser…are you new?”

“Never mind that.” The young man was apparently immune to flirtation. “Let me see your permission slip.”

Juliet allowed her annoyance to show. Lydia was her mentor, and she hadn't needed a permission slip to be up here since a year after her Harrowing - it was a small circle in Ostwick and the templars just knew who she was. “I don't have one.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don't have one?”

“That's what I said.”

The templar huffed in annoyance. “Mage, if you think - “

“Problem, Miss Trevelyan?”

“Not at all, Ser Millward.” Juliet smiled brightly at the new arrival. “I was just getting acquainted with your colleague here. Ser…?”

"This is Bennick, Miss Trevelyan. Newly arrived."

"I would never have guessed."

“Ser, this mage has no slip.”

“I don't see what my underclothes have to do with this.”

Ser Millward smirked a little, and the new templar glared at them both.

“Off you go, Miss Trevelyan - don't want to keep the senior enchanter waiting now, do we?”

“Certainly not!” Gifting both men with a charming smile, she continued along the hall, furious whispers breaking out behind her.

“What are you doing? That's Bann Trevelyan’s daughter!”

“So the rules don't apply?”

“I don't know where you're from, Bennick, but here in Ostwick we have respect for our noble families.”

“You mean they pay you?”

“They give enough to the Chantry to pay your wage a hundred times over, boy. She's got permission to be up here. Never mind the bloody paper.”

Grinning, she ducked into Lydia's office.

“Held up, were we?” The older woman glanced up from the scroll she had been perusing.

“Templars.” Juliet shrugged.

“So I heard.” Lydia looked at her sharply. “Things are changing, Juliet. The Circle might not be this way forever.”

“And that's a bad thing?”

“It could be.”

“The Ferelden circle was granted autonomy,” she argued. “Not all change is for the worse.”

“That change brought them barely in line with the privileges you have here.” The senior enchanter’s voice was uncharacteristically sharp. “Your brother is a templar in Kirkwall, isn't he?”

“Yes. Michael.” She hadn't seen him in thirteen years. “We're not close.”

“That's hardly surprising, I suppose. News coming from there has been…disturbing. It's hard to sort fact from fiction, with the restrictions they have on communication, but there are rumours of blood magic - “

“When are there not rumours of blood magic?”

“Credible rumours. Forced tranquillity, disappearances on both sides. Tensions between mages and templars are coming to a head and when they do, it won't just be Kirkwall affected.”

“Affected how?”

She spread her hands wide. “Who knows? Maybe an Exalted March. Maybe the Right of Annulment. The templars you aggravate today could have your life in their hands tomorrow.”

Juliet sighed. “Lydia, if it comes to the Right of Annulment it won't matter what the templars think of us - we'll all be dead. They have our lives in their hands as it is.” She smiled mischievously. “Anyway, I plan to win him over.”

“You've been lucky so far, Juliet. Your name protects you and the templars here aren't so bad - but there are plenty out there who'll never see you as anything but a robe. And when the tide turns, they'll stick together.”

“Then we'll have to stick together too, won't we?”

Lydia looked at her until Juliet grew uncomfortable with the silence, fiddling with the end of her long braid. Finally she gave her apprentice a wry smile. “If it comes to that, let's hope we do.”


	10. Solona

_Lake Calenhad, 9:30 Dragon Age_

 

There was something beautiful about Kinloch Hold from a distance. It wasn’t a view Solona was familiar with, the slender spire of the tower rising over the waters of Lake Calenhad, tinged crimson by the sunset. Looking out from the inside was all she’d ever known.

She’d wished to be out of sight of the tower before they set up camp but they’d all been so weary, tired and bruised in both body and spirit. Now she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off the building that once had been her prison. Once, it had been her home.

The faint creak of leather was all the warning she had of Zevran's presence before he crouched down next to the rocks where she sat, following her line of sight to the dusk-silhouetted tower.

“So, you and the templar…?”

There was a time not so long ago when she found it disconcerting, this habit of stealth in a man who had tried to take her life. Now it was just something she'd come to expect from the assassin, as much a part of him as his brash self-confidence or his effortless flirting.

“No,” Solona said decisively. “There was nothing like that. Not what you're thinking.”

Zevran's eyes flickered over her face, too knowing. “But you were _the one thing he wanted._ Did you know?”

Cullen’s words still sat like a cold ball of iron in her belly. “No,” she said again. “He was friendly, that's all. We were…”

Friends? Could a mage and a templar ever be friends? Apparently not. It was his duty to oppose her, and all that she was.

“You regret what might have been,” the elf guessed.

“Nothing might have been. Even if…” She shook her head angrily. “Mages aren't allowed. Not with templars, not with anyone.”

“Aren't allowed what?” There was a gentleness in the way Zevran pushed back the unruly strands of her hair, his thumb just brushing the skin beneath her ear. “Love? Joy? Sex?”

“Any of that.” Suddenly flushed, she stood up only to find him standing as well, elegant fingers resting on the nape of her neck and his golden eyes boring into hers.

“You're not in the Circle any more, little mage,” he murmured. “You can have anything you want.”

There was a surge of desire so sudden and strong she almost swayed into his arms. A demon, there must be a demon…but no, there was just the assassin, his hand warm and tangible on her neck and a question in his eyes.

“You're wrong.” Panicked, she took a step back and he let his hand fall. “There's too much - I can't. That's not for me.”

“Ah, Solona.” He made no move to follow her, but none of the heat had left his gaze - she could almost feel it on her skin, teasing unwelcome feelings from her suddenly treacherous body. “One day you will realise that you deserve what joy you can get, and I will be here.” He gave a tiny, mocking bow. “Good night, my beautiful Grey Warden.”

Flustered, she lingered after he had gone, breathing deep lungfuls of the cool night air. Too many feelings, guilt and sorrow and regret and anger and now, damn him, the warm coil of desire…it made her want to throw herself into something, drink or battle or even fucking, Maker help her, but that would just lead to another untidy riot of feelings and that was the last thing she wanted or needed now.

She stumbled into her tent, falling on the bedroll before she even began fumbling with her armour, toeing off her boots. Sleep would solve everything, or at least make it go away for a time. But sleep receded the moment she closed her eyes - it was all rending, tearing flesh and gore-spattered walls. The feeling of the veil parchment-thin around her and the press of hungry demons, Cullen’s hollow, resentful eyes and why the fuck would she want to return to the Fade anyway, hadn't she just spent an eternity lost in its twisting corridors?

Swearing softly, she conjured a glimmer of light and searched around for her pouch. Inside her fingers closed over the familiar scarlet-bound spine of _The Rose of Orlais._

It smelled of leather and parchment, of idle afternoons curled up on her favourite bench in the library and evenings in the dormitory before lights out. The dry whisper of each turning page spoke to her of a time when everything between she and Cullen was unspoken and unspoilt.

The words blurred in front of her eyes. The tears she shed weren't for the loss of Cullen - she'd never been foolish enough to think he was hers to lose. But so many dead and Cullen tortured, twisted until the kindness bled out of him and he looked at her like she was just another monster. And could she honestly say she wouldn't have become one, that her will or even her mind wouldn't have broken? _Fire made flesh. A demon asleep._

But demons wouldn't tempt her - not as long as she remembered that whatever promises they might whisper in her ear at night - love, family, normality - those things weren't for her, however the touch of slender fingers might still warm the nape of her neck.

Letting the light die she curled up on her side, arms wrapped around the hollow ache in her middle.

 

* * *

 

 

“I found it in the tower…in the senior enchanters’ quarters. I thought you might like it.”

“Why, Solona, this is a most generous gift!” Wynne beamed, turning the scarlet-covered book over in her hands. “Have you read it?”

Solona glanced away to where the last of their camp was being cleared away - Alistair looked back with pity in his eyes, and Zevran…something else, something more speculative, more appraising. A look that made heat coil in her belly and her thighs clench.

“I had a look. Romance.” She shrugged. “It's not for me.”


	11. Cullen

_Kinloch Hold, 9:31 Dragon Age_

 

She didn't listen.

Why should he be surprised? She'd shown her loyalties the night she left the Circle. On his darkest nights Cullen wondered if she hadn't been Jowan’s lover all along, the two of them laughing at his boyish infatuation before they rutted in some dark corner - if he closed his eyes he could see them writhing together, robes up around their waists and her full lips parted in lewd ecstasy.

The thought made him hard, and ashamed, and bitterly, bitterly angry.

Now she was gone again and they spoke of her as some sort of hero, their saviour instead of the disgraced traitor she should be remembered as. But they would, wouldn't they? Mages would always side with each other before Chantry law, before safety and practicality and common decency. Solona had shown him that on more than one occasion. Of those remaining thanks to her misplaced mercy, how many had suspected Uldred’s plan? Had remained silent thinking an uprising might give them freedom? How many had rejoiced in those first moments of chaos before it had become clear that the blood mages would turn on their own as quickly as the templars?

He fancied he could hear them whispering, always whispering. Just waiting for the right moment to strike. Well let them try, he'd kill them all, every man, woman and child before he found himself caged again. For now he'd be watchful, distant - no more leniency, no more illusions of friendship.

If he could thank Solona for anything, it was for teaching him that lesson.

 

* * *

 

 

“She was one of our own, and we will honour her as such.”

Greagoir’s words seemed to come to him from the end of a long tunnel. _Sacrifice. Inspiration. Hero._

_Death._

The Knight-Commander was looking at him gravely, expectantly. He was expected to say something.

“Ser.” His own voice was flat and hollow in his ears.

“I know you were friendly with the girl - if you wanted some time off, for contemplation…” Greagoir’s normally flinty grey eyes were softened with a sympathy that made Cullen bristle - did he think him weak?

“No!” he said, too quickly. There were so few of them now, he had to be vigilant, always vigilant. “No, Ser, I would prefer not.”

“Good. I will travel to Denerim for the funeral, to represent the Order. I'd like to leave you in charge.” Greagoir leaned back in his chair. “Do you think you can handle that, Cullen?”

“Yes, Ser.”

“I leave in the morning. You will take the rest of the day off.” A raised hand silenced his protest. “That's an order. You've been pushing yourself to exhaustion, lad, and you're no use to me if you're not sharp.”

“Yes, Ser.”

“Another thing, Cullen.”

“Ser?”

“I know the…situation here was not resolved to your liking. But I want you to remember that the Amell girl saved many lives - yours included - and she didn't have to. Whatever circumstances led to her conscription _that_ is worthy of respect, and there's no shame in admitting it.”

Cullen swallowed hard. “Ser.”

Dismissed, he wandered back through the halls. The Chantry beckoned, but Andraste’s stone face with its empty eye sockets seemed to stare at him accusingly. She knew the treachery in his heart, that if he went in there now it would not be her sacrifice that he contemplated.

He was near stumbling by the time he emerged, blinking, onto the grounds around the base of the tower. A fine drizzle fell on his face and beaded in his eyelashes and the wet smell of dark earth was all around him, damp grass and elfroot and leaf litter. Lake and sky mocked him with the blue-grey of her eyes.

What weakness made him kneel on the ground, gauntlets digging into the black soil? He could almost hear her soft voice here, see the sunlight glinting in her hair and he couldn't stop the sobs that wracked his chest, the hot tears mingling with the rain. It was strange, so strange that she should be dead and he still here, that the thoughts he wished he'd shared with her remained unspoken and all his bitter, cruel words should be the last thing he ever said to her.

“I'm sorry,” he found himself moaning, not sure if he even meant it but it was a tide that wouldn't stop, a litany more real than the Chant, over and over into the blue-grey sky. “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”


	12. Juliet

_Ostwick, 9:41 Dragon Age_

“Trevelyan lands? We're not going that way.” The lead mercenary’s piercing blue eyes took in her dusty blue robes, the bandits groaning and twitching at her feet. “Not for a couple of days, anyway. Got a job to the east.” He scratched his dark stubble. “Seems like you can handle yourself though.”

“I was holding them off. I don't know how long that would have lasted if you hadn't come along.” Juliet kicked one of the fallen men weakly, wincing at the pain it caused her blistered foot. She was sore, parched and exhausted and the road stretched interminably on.

“What'd they want?” He was handsome in a rough way - it looked like he took care of his appearance, even the days-old growth on his face kept neatly in line. The whole crew looked clean, unlike the stinking bandits they'd helped her put down.

“To rob me, at first. Once they believed I didn't have anything…”

“They thought they'd take something else.” The man spat. “We could still finish them off.”

As tempting as it was, Juliet had no appetite for more violence.

_Lydia's dead. You should go now, while you can - if the war's coming here your name won't save you, Trevelyan._

War? Nothing in the streets of Ostwick had pointed to a war. She'd tried to find passage out of the city, but the combination of Circle robes and a lack of currency had made it a fool's errand. In desperation she'd nearly turned back towards the Circle…but there was no safety to be found there, Bennick’s warning had made that much clear. His tabard had been splattered with blood - whose, she would likely never know. Now here she was on the road north, the day's warmth fading and her shoes already wearing through.

“Tell you what,” the mercenary said. “We could use a mage on this job. All above board, just a little intimidation. Then we get you back to your family.”

“I didn't say they were - “

“I didn't get where I am by being stupid, Lady Trevelyan. Stay on this road and if you're lucky you'll reach there on foot in five, six days. If you're unlucky, well…”

Fuck it. Who knew if they were trustworthy or not, they had horses and were likely going to sleep somewhere more comfortable than under a hedge. What choice did she have?

“I've got no coin,” she said. “And if it's payment you're after, I can't guarantee my family will be grateful to see me back.”

“That’s a familiar tale.” He reached down and offered her a hand. “Name's Jed.”

“Juliet. Pleased to meet you.”

“I don't hear that too often.” His hand was warm and rough, grip firm but not crushing. “You can ride behind me if you don't mind cuddling up to a merc.”

She returned his open smile. “If you're not worried about an apostate at your back, I'm sure we'll get along fine.”

 

* * *

 

 

 _"_ You need some new clothes,” Jed said that evening over stew-filled trenchers in a roadside inn. “Not that the boys don't mind seeing a nice pair of legs but it's not practical for riding, and it draws the wrong sort of attention if you know what I mean.”

“I do.” She wasn't oblivious to the sideways looks and mutters of the taproom patrons - perhaps surrounding herself with armed soldiers hadn't been the worst outcome.

“So do we need to worry about templars? Going to run into trouble with the law?”

“I wish I knew. A templar told me the Circles were disbanded.”

Jed nodded. “Heard as much. So you're, what - free to go?”

“He told me to leave, wasn't too clear on the details. I don't know if I'm meant to hide, or run…there's talk of a fortress in Orlais where the rebels are gathering but I don't know if I want to join a rebellion and I can't even get a day's ride out of bloody Ostwick without wearing out my shoes and having to fight off a pack of fucking bandits.”

“Hey.” His hand closed over hers. “Next few days, you're one of ours. Then we'll get you back to that family that might or might not want you, and you can hide out there until someone tells you where to go next.”

“That doesn't sound like the worst plan, I suppose.” For the first time all day she felt like perhaps she wasn't hopelessly lost, turned loose on the world with a target on her back. “But where do I get clothes?”

“The lad should have something to fit.” He nodded to the group’s archer. “Now, you happy to bunk in with me?”

“That's…” Her eyes widened.

“Two beds. And I won't try anything, don't fancy lightning to my balls.” Jed grinned. “Unless you want me to try something?”

If he was looking for a blush, he'd picked the wrong mage. “I'll let you know.” She fixed him with a level stare, smiling when he was the first to look away.

“Right then, Lady Trevelyan. I think I'm going to enjoy working with you.”

* * *

 

 

The job went off without a hitch - all she had to do was set a barrier against snipers and let loose a hint of lightning when there was a threat of non-payment.

“I've never seen so much gold appear so fast,” one of the mercs rumbled appreciatively.

“We should keep you around.” Jed’s arms were wrapped loosely around her waist where she sat before him in the saddle. “You any good at healing?”

“It's not my best talent,” she replied. “But I should be able to patch up minor wounds, and I can fix hangovers.”

“You're hired, Trevelyan!”

Juliet laughed, but the thought was tempting. Armed protection, a decent if unsteady income - the warm body at her back might also be a factor. “So, tomorrow…?”

“We deliver you home, as promised.”

“And tonight?”

She heard his uneven intake of breath. “It's not needed. You've more than earned your escort, my lady.”

“Not needed?” She turned her head slightly, feeling the rasp of stubble against her face. “Why don't you let me be the judge of that?”

One broad hand fell to her thigh, warm through the borrowed leggings.

“How d’you want it?” His breath was hot on her neck. “Gentle, rough, slow? I'm not too used to fine ladies like you.”

“How rough is rough?” she asked in a low voice, and his fingers tightened.

“Not going to slap you around or choke you or anything. Maybe a little teeth, maybe pull your hair if you like that.” His teeth tugged gently on her earlobe, making her shiver. “Mostly just fucking. Face-to-face, all fours, you bouncing on my cock…whatever feels good. Just a good, deep, hard fuck.”

Yes. Her rear pressed deliberately back against him and he hissed in a breath.

“Rough then? Could have guessed.” Dragging her hips closer, he reached up to cup her breasts. “Don't reckon you've been used properly in a long time. Maybe never.”

“I know my way around.” She arched slowly into his touch and he chuckled, deep and gravelly.

“I don't doubt it, the way you've been eye-fucking me the last few days. Still, there's time to back out if you don't want to go too far below your station.”

“I'm a mage. We have no stations.”

He laughed ruefully. “If that's what you want to believe, I won't argue.”

 

* * *

 

 

That night there were no twin beds. Neither were there tangled robes or rushed fumbling against the wall, hips pressing close together to smother the telltale noises of flesh joining. Just savage, joyful, uninhibited sex.

“You're so quiet,” he grunted at one point, driving hard into her. “You sure this is good?”

“How…could this not be good?” She let his hand slip under the small of her back, angling her hips to take him deeper. “I'm just not used to making noise.” Even this much was a throaty whisper in his ear, the habit of secrecy so ingrained she half expected to hear the heavy footfalls of templars in the corridor.

“You've got nothing to hide in here.” A sharp snap of his hips drew a reluctant squeak from her throat. “Come on, Trevelyan. Let me hear you.”

Her first finish came with a wail, smothered in the pillow. By the third she was screaming and panting and at the last both were silent, sated and breathless.

“Maker,” she whispered finally. The tallow candles had burned out an hour ago, only a sliver of moonlight illuminated their naked bodies. “I'm never going back to the Circle.”

“It'd be a fucking waste, that's for certain.” Jed drew her closer, pillowing his head on her sweat-soaked breasts. “The offer stands, by the way. If your people don't want you there's a place with us. The crew like you.” He kissed her damp skin. “I like you.”

She lay awake long after he dozed off, fingers tracing the knotted scars on his back. _A place with us._ It was more than her family had ever offered.

* * *

 

 

“This it, then?” Jed whistled slowly. “Nice. Think I might become a Bann myself some day.”

“I think you'd be bored.” Juliet leaned up to kiss him softly on the cheek. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

“Don't thank me yet. I'll wait by the gate a while in case they don't let you in.”

“If I don't see you again - “

“Yeah, yeah.” He cut her off with a wink. “Best night of my life, too. Good luck, Trevelyan.”

She felt his eyes on her all the way to the imposing front door. She knocked hard, twice, and when she looked back the courtyard was empty.

“Yes?” It was a new maid who answered the door, clearly unimpressed by the strange girl in her ill-fitting mercenary clothes.

“I'd like to see Bann Trevelyan, please. Or Lady Trevelyan.” Suddenly nervous, she swallowed against the lump in her throat. “Could you please tell them it's Juliet.”


	13. Solona

_Southern Ferelden, 9:30 Dragon Age_

 

“Too high.” Zevran watched her with a critical eye as she slashed and parried. “Here, watch me again.”

He moved with a fluid grace she could never hope to match, the daggers as much a part of him as his hands. “See, I think that’s what I’m doing but when I actually do it...my body just doesn’t move the way I want it to.”

Solona knew she shouldn’t have mentioned her body to the assassin; his golden gaze swept over her and she became very conscious that only a thin shirt and leggings protected her modesty. Clothes that had seemed eminently suitable for sparring became provocative under his frank appraisal.

“Movement is a skill you must learn, my warden. Dancing, fucking, fighting - all these things take practice. If you do not wish to practice, then…” He shrugged. “Go back to wielding your staff. It has served you tolerably.”

That would require less effort, certainly, but...she glanced to where Spellweaver lay sheathed in its scabbard. How could she explain the way the sword had sung to her when she found it, its subtle vibration ceasing when her hand closed around the hilt, as if it breathed a sigh of relief? How the Arcane Warrior memories within her had swirled and settled, something deep within her whispering _yes, this is your sword._

“If it’s just a matter of practice, I’d like to keep trying. If you don’t mind teaching me, that is.”

“And forgo the chance to have this radiant beauty all to myself? Perish the thought!” He gave her a wolfish grin. “Again! More slowly this time. Your movement may not be perfect, but it is still very pleasing to the eye.”

Self-consciously she mimicked his movements the best she could, the unfamiliar dance causing neglected muscles to ache. “That time felt better. Did it look better?”

“It did indeed, my beauty. Do that a hundred times without putting your own eye out, and I may let you practice with your sword.”

“It might be easier with my sword than with a stick,” she countered.

“Ah, my impatient little mage, you lack the strength to wield that sword.” Sidling closer, he lifted her arm. “When you have hard muscle here - “ he squeezed her bicep, “and here - “ with a firm hand on her midriff, “then you may wield a sword. When training with sticks no longer makes your arms burn and your heart race.”

She was very still, hyper-aware of his arm around her waist and his warm chest at her back. “My heart isn’t racing now.”

“Ah, but it is.” He pressed closer. “I can feel it. Boom-boom. Boom-boom. It is - how do you say? Fluttering in your breast, like one of the girls in those books of yours.”

At his words her heart did seem to flutter, her throat becoming dry. “You mean Wynne’s book?”

“Yes, _Wynne’s book._ The one you so fortuitously found lying inside a larger book beneath a stack of still larger books.” His laughter tickled her neck. “It is a handsomely bound book, if a little dog-eared in some of the more...salacious passages.”

“Just how much did you read, exactly?” Solona tried to keep her tone light, but the tremble in her voice betrayed her. “I’m beginning to think I gifted it to the wrong person.”

“Hmm, I have read enough. For me, there are too many flowery euphemisms in such a book. Swords and sheaths, this sort of nonsense.” Almost imperceptibly the hand at her waist tightened, his other fingers brushing lightly across her jaw. “I prefer to call a cock a cock, and a cunt a cunt. What about you, my warden?”

“I don’t…” There was a melting, tingling feeling between her thighs and she found it hard to focus, hard to figure out how the conversation had ended up here with his fingertips at her throat and his arm brushing the underside of her breasts. “What do you want, Zevran?”

“Ah, you see? This is where language is important. If I were to say, _I want you,_ it could mean any manner of things.” He was still now, his grip neither relaxing nor tightening. “But if I was to be explicit...perhaps if I were to suggest that I wished to run my tongue over your breasts, or to wet my fingers between your thighs, or to slide my cock inside your virgin pussy  - now then, there could be no misunderstanding. Those are all things I want. So my question to you, my warden, is what do _you_ want?”

She wanted to slap him. She wanted to storm back to camp and banish him from their party. She wanted to stay just where she was, very still, and let him do all those things without having to make a decision she couldn’t take back. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Does it matter?”

“Yes.” His hands slipped from her and he took a step, just one step, back. “It matters a great deal.”

 _Love isn’t for you,_ she reminded herself. _Attachment isn’t for you._ But as promised, he had been explicit - no mention of love, no mention of attachment beyond the anatomical. Could it hurt so much, just to know? Just to find out what those books were on about, to see what led people into those dark corners of the Circle, what made them moan and gasp and pant in the darkness.

Turning slowly, she forced herself to meet his eyes. “Will you show me?’

He smiled a lazy, self-satisfied smile. “But of course, my warden.”

As the leaves murmured overhead, she learned of the warm-rough feel of hands on her bare skin, the slick heat of mouth and tongue on stiff nipples, the sharp ecstasy when his lips drew on her aching flesh. The uneven ground was at her back and his thigh between her legs, pressing, sliding maddeningly against her as his mouth worked skillfully at her bared breasts until she arched and wriggled beneath his tongue.

Solona whimpered incoherently, having some idea of what she needed but too shy to ask.

Zevran reached up and stroked her jaw, tilting her face towards his. “Ah, my lovely. You are close, no?” His deft fingers loosened the ties at her waist. “Can I help you along?” He didn't have to spell it out for her - his fingers lingered above her waistband, stroking tiny circles that made her hips rise from the ground. Unsure what would come out of her mouth if she tried to speak, she merely nodded.

The first brush of his fingertips made her head fall back. The next touch dipped into the slick between her legs and swirled once around her clit and it was enough to break her - she jerked, crying out, her thighs squeezing tight around his fingers where they still stroked her. Her heart wasn't fluttering now…it was thumping, pounding in the wake of a feeling that no written romance could describe.

“Thank you, my warden.” Zevran's smile was languid as he withdrew his hand from her leggings. “That was a beautiful sight indeed.”

She sat up. “I need…” This was madness. The day was cooling, Maker knew how long they'd been gone and here she was, flushed and half-naked on the ground. In a panic she retrieved her discarded clothing.

“Regrets? Already?”

“No.” She hastily retied her breastband and struggled into her shirt. “No, I don't…I just…” Absurdly, she felt herself on the edge of tears. “Just give me space, Zevran. Please. I need to think about this.”

“Solona.” Sitting up, he craned his neck to meet her eyes. “Know this: I will never ask more of you than you are willing to give.”

“That's…” She paused in buttoning her shirt. “That helps.”

Zevran rose to his feet with a catlike grace she envied. “Is all well, then?”

“It will be.” Solona smiled shyly. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

 

“How about now, my warden?”

“Hmm?” Solona stirred sleepily, twisting to look up at Zevran. His fingers ran through the loose strands of her hair and trailed across her bare back.

“Do you have regrets now?”

It was difficult to make out his features - the fire in the Redcliffe Castle guest room was banked for the night and in its muted glow she could see little more than a pair of narrowed golden eyes.

“No.” She felt sore and a bit sticky, still somewhat self-conscious about their naked bodies pressed together beneath the sheets. Apprehensive - what would the others say if they knew? But regrets…he had been so patient since their first encounter beneath the trees, so understanding, and tonight he had offered nothing less. “I'm glad I got to do that, at least once. I'm happy it was with you.” She ran a hand over the swirling tattoos on his chest.

“You speak as if you plan on dying tomorrow, my little mage.”

“Not tomorrow. Not for a while, I hope.”

Her eyes drifted shut again as he stroked lazily down the curve of her hip, over her buttocks and thighs, up to the small of her back.

“You know,” she heard him say, “when I took the contract against you I had planned on dying. I thought you would kill me, but you did not. And I am glad now that I live, that I share this bed with a woman such as yourself. You have seen too little of this world, my beauty, to wish to die.”

“I don't wish it.” She struggled up to see his face properly, the sheets falling to her waist. “There are things I have to see through. The Landsmeet, the Blight. I just can't see anything…after that. I can't imagine a future.”

In the half-light Zevran's eyes seemed dark and sad. He drew her close to him and nuzzled into the crook of her shoulder.

“Let me imagine it for you, my warden. You will defeat the Blight and be a hero to all. Men will duel for your hand.” He pressed her fingers between his, planting a kiss on the inside of her wrist. “You will marry for love, and riches, and have an estate somewhere warm. Antiva, perhaps. Surrounded by a host of fat, healthy children.”

The tiniest of sobs drew his attention. Tutting, he kissed the tears from her face.

“Ah, Solona, Solona. Why should this not be true?”

“No,” was all she could whisper. “No.” Her lips found his, her body melting into his. No more talk, no more tales about a fantasy that could never be. She had this, and it was real, and primal, and forbidden and for that reason she would savour it even more. Drawing him down on top of her she wrapped her legs around his narrow hips and whimpered into his mouth when he pushed inside her for the second time that night. No past, no future - this was enough, this would have to be enough.


	14. Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen gets an education (smut)

_The Waking Sea, 9:31 Dragon Age_

 

It didn't take Cullen long to decide that he hated the ocean.

The constant, rolling motion. The horizon, flat and identical in all directions. And the ship, the void-blasted ship with its tiny spaces and the smell that permeated below decks, of sweat and waste and desperation.

His cramped cabin offered more privacy than most passengers had. He was grateful the order had bought him a place to sleep alone and safety store his things, even if he spent as little time there as possible - with the door open the smell was unbearable, and closed it was claustrophobic, suffocating. Once the ship had left port he spent most of his time on the deck, watching the neverending horizon bob up and down. Or like now, in the moonless dark, just listening to the lap of waves against the ship’s side.

“Templar.” He turned in surprise - the voice came from the doorway of the private abovedeck cabin, a female figure outlined in the lamplight spilling from within. “You are, aren't you? I saw you come aboard in your armour.”

“Do you need help?”

The woman’s laugh was rich and musical. “You could say that. Come here, templar.”

Cullen looked around. This section of deck was empty but for him and the mystery woman - could it be a trap? “Why…what can I help you with?” He moved closer and she stepped back into the light.

“You can help me drink this bottle.” She was older than Cullen, fair-haired with ruddy cheeks and a lilting accent he couldn't place. The cabin was at least three times the size of his own with a real bed instead of a hammock and a bench and table bolted to the floor. “Come in! I promise I'm not a mage.”

Confident that he would follow she sat heavily on the bench, pouring amber liquid into two pewter cups. It could have been the warm glow of lanterns or the wafting aroma of fine whiskey - either way, somehow Cullen found himself drawn inside the cabin.

“It's cold,” the stranger said. “Shut the door.” When Cullen obliged she slid the cup across to him. “So, templar, you have a name?”

“I - “ He rubbed the back of his neck nervously. “Cullen.”

“Have a drink, I Cullen.”

He didn't know too much about whiskey, but he could tell an expensive vintage when he tasted one. “Miss…you shouldn't be sharing this with me.”

“Really?” She gave him an arch lift of her eyebrows. “I should drink it alone, then? It's not Miss, by the way.”

Cullen wasn't sure if this piece of information made the fact of their being alone in her cabin more or less inappropriate. “Is your husband aboard?”

She seemed to find this amusing. “No, he's not. Will you sit down? It would make the room feel bigger.” He perched awkwardly on the bench, as far from her as he could sit. “Now tell me, what brings a fine young Ferelden templar across the Waking Sea?”

He was unable to hide his flush of shame. He would not share with this stranger his reaction at learning of the Circle mages’ autonomy, his ill-conceived outburst to the Knight-Commander. “I'm being transferred to the Kirkwall Circle.”

“I see.” Her green eyes bored through him. “Is that promotion or punishment?”

“I suppose I'll find out when I get there.”

Her laugh was sharp and sudden. “Why, Ser Cullen. Was that a joke?”

Still flustered, he allowed himself a shy grin. “And you?”

“I'm going home to Starkhaven.” She swirled the amber liquid in her cup, looking up at him through pale lashes.

That was the accent, then. “What brought you to Ferelden?”

“My husband. He was a merchant.”

“What does he do now?” Maker, but he was terrible at small talk, and her next remark made him realise just how bad.

“Very little.” Her mouth twisted bitterly. “Darkspawn got him outside Amaranthine.”

“I - “ Aware that his mouth was gaping open, Cullen swallowed his discomfort with a large gulp of whiskey. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean…”

“To pry? I don't see why not, I started it.” Leaning over to refill his cup, she allowed him a glimpse of her unlaced bodice, the gap at the neck of her blouse hinting at an ample, milk-white bosom.

“I'm not sure if I should drink more, my lady. I don't know if it's appropriate - “

“I'm not a lady,” she corrected him, “and it's not at all appropriate. That's the point. Tell me, Cullen, have you much experience with women? I'm assuming from the way you're staring down my dress that you're not more interested in boys.”

“I'm not! I mean, I wasn't. Looking.” Another gulp of his drink, just to give him something else to focus on, and his head felt light and fuzzy.

“Let me tell you what's going to happen now, Cullen.” Biting her lip, she unlaced her bodice further. “You can finish your drink, and go back to your cabin, and this never happened. Or…” The bodice came free, the top of her blouse slipping from her pale shoulders. “You can stay here and offer a lonely widow some comfort.” She threw the rest of her whiskey back and sat the empty cup on the table before watching him expectantly.

Blessed Andraste. He should go. He should…but in her eyes was a question, and his stillness was an answer. Her mouth pressed, wet and startling against his own, her tongue pressing the rich taste of whiskey onto his. A shift and a rustle of skirts and she was astride him, a hand snaking down to cup the front of his trousers.

“My Angus always said you Circle templars must be eunuchs.” Practised fingers stroked and squeezed, making him buck against her hand. “I guess he'll never know how wrong he was.”

His eyes falling shut, he felt her work his hand inside her blouse and squeeze it around one full breast. “Kiss my neck,” she ordered. “Fuck, yes, like that…oh, Maker.”

Shyness forgotten in the haze of lust and alcohol, he worked the dress further down her shoulders to bare her breasts, exploring the creamy flesh with hands and mouth. When he took one pale pink nipple between his lips and flicked his tongue against it she keened, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt to hold him in place.

“Please,” she gasped and took his hand, guiding it beneath her bunched skirts. A moment's surprise when he encountered rough, wet curls where he had expected smallclothes, then all was slick and heat as she pushed his fingers inside her with a whispered _“Oh.”_

Her head fell to his shoulder, one arm looped around his neck as the other hand clutched his wrist. “Like this,” she mumbled, rocking gently against him as she worked his hand up and down. “Oh, that feels good. Thank you, thank you.”

“What's your name?” Cullen flushed at the thought that he hadn't asked as much before his fingers were buried in her cunt.

She looked at him in surprise then laughed, the same thought probably occurring to her. “Mary.” She kissed him, languid and sloppy, hips still riding his hand. “More,” she demanded between sweeps of her tongue. “More fingers. Harder. Yes, that's it…yes…”

There was no pretense at kissing now, just open-mouthed panting against his lips and a tiny whimper in the back of her throat. His fingers pumped and curled inside her and she ground the heel of his hand against her until she went still, then seemed almost to convulse, the wet walls of her cunt trembling around him. “Oh, Maker, _fuck,_ ohhhhh…”

Cullen waited for her breathing to return to normal, uncertain what to do with his sex-slicked hand. He settled for wiping it on his thigh. “Was that good?”

“Good.” Tenderly she kissed his temple. “You don't know how I needed that.”

“Should I go?” There was no hiding his straining erection - if that was all she needed from him then he needed to be alone, and quickly.

Mary laughed, soft and throaty. “Don't you dare.” Deftly she reached inside his trousers, pumping his length with a firm hand. “I couldn't leave you in this state, now could I?” Abruptly she withdrew, laughing again at his groan of disappointment. “First, let's get out of these clothes.”

Cullen was standing with his shirt halfway off before he remembered his scars - thin, silvery against the skin of his arm. Mary might have missed them if he didn't freeze and stare, all at once self-conscious again.

“What have you got there?” Naked, she traced the marks with her fingertips, standing close enough for her breasts to brush his chest. “Was it darkspawn?”

The neat parallel lines did look somewhat like claw marks - he could lie, make up a battle or the sort of roadside ambush that had made her a widow. Instead he remembered the trickle of blood following the line of Uldred’s knife - it had amused the man to use Cullen's own life force to maintain the cage that trapped him.

“Blood mage,” he said quietly.

“You poor boy.” She drew his head to her shoulder, stroking his curly head, and after a moment’s hesitation he let his arms encircle her waist.

“It doesn't matter now.” Uldred was dead - _she_ killed him, killed all of them while he cowered in a cage. Mary felt the tremor in his shoulders and forced him to meet her eyes.

“You've seen some things, haven't you, lad? Not such a boy, except in one way. Come then.” She lay down on the thin mattress and drew him on top of her. “Let's see what you're made of.”

Her body was soft and welcoming, her mouth as hot and hungry as before, and he was lost in the heady scent of her arousal, her pale, still youthful flesh yielding to his exploring hands.

“Now,” she moaned, “I want you now,” and suddenly instead of fair hair he saw waves of dark brown, blue-grey eyes above a cruel smile. Her nails were claws in his shoulders and her legs held him trapped like a spider in a web. A demon, a demon with the face of Solona... 

“No!” Cullen gasped. He pushed free of her and hit the wall with a thud. “I can't! I can't, I'm sorry.”

“Oh, lad.” Mary was herself again, as she had always been. She reached out and stroked his face. “Guilt, is it? Chantry got in your head? Let me tell you a secret.” The pad of her thumb traced his lower lip. “Andraste doesn't care where you put your cock. And the Maker, well, he's turned his back on us…which is probably for the best, eh? If we're going to do what I hope we're going to do.”

Holding his gaze she turned, positioning herself on hands and knees with her ripe breasts hanging down.

“Does this help?” She drew one knee up towards her chest and he glimpsed the dark pink of her swollen sex. “You don't have to look at me. Easier for us both to pretend it's someone else, that way.”

“I don't need to pretend.” He needed to bury himself inside her and forget any of it had ever happened. “I don't mind being with you.”

“Well that's very sweet of you, Cullen.” Mary arched her back invitingly. “Shall we, then?” Her head hung down as he lined himself up with her entrance. “That's it. All the way, now.”

“Maker.” It was incredible to feel her warmth enveloping his shaft, the way she moved and clenched around him. Without thinking he began to thrust and she rocked back against him, his thighs hitting hers with a slap each time they joined. Obscene, yet somehow beautiful the way her breasts jiggled in his grasping hands, the way her elbows buckled and her shoulders shook as he pounded into her. 

“Yes, sweetheart, that's it. Right there. Just a bit longer, yes, fuck…” Again she reached for his hand and pushed it between her legs, pressing hard against the slick pearl hidden there. “Touch me there, there, oh, OH - “

She went over the edge with a drawn-out cry and he followed her seconds later, his hoarse groan joining hers, his seed mingling with the slick between her legs.

He rested his sweat-dampened forehead on her back, overcome by the force of his climax. She was shaking, and it took him some time to realise that she was crying, face pillowed in her folded arms.

“I'm sorry.” Horrified, he sat back on his heels. “I didn't mean to upset you…what can I do?” Still weeping silently, she shook her head. “Mary? Should I go?”

“No, you fool,” she growled through her tears. “You think I want to wake up alone in this Maker-forsaken bed, on this stinking hull of a ship?” She turned a red-eyed glare on him. “Lie the fuck down, Cullen, and stay with me. Stay and give me something to think about other than my dead husband and my shit-caked wreck of a life. Alright? Or fuck off now and let me drink myself into the grave next to him.”

She stumbled from bed to wipe angrily between her thighs and he hovered, hopelessly out of his depth. “I'll stay, then.”

“Do what you want.”

“I want to stay.”

“So stay.” The young widow glanced at him and despite her acid tone, he could see that she was pleased. “Do you snore?”

“No.”

“Well I do. And kick, and steal the bedclothes. Do you still want to stay?”

“Yes.” He stretched out on the bed, pressing close to the wall to leave her space. “Now come back to bed.”

 

* * *

 

The long days and nights of the sea journey blended into one. Cullen returned to his cabin only to wash and change clothes, and down his daily small vial of lyrium - he had been provided enough for the trip, no more and no less. After breaking his fast he would go back to Mary.

There were times when they slept, times when they talked, deliberately skirting around anything too personal or painful. They drank a lot - she had a seemingly endless supply, Starkhaven whiskies and Antivan brandies, Orlesian wines and Rivaini rums. Cullen had never been one to indulge much in alcohol but it became a habit when he was with her - drinking, playing cards and fucking, careless of the time of day or the weather outside.

It didn't matter any more that the deck beneath him was constantly in motion because they were too - joined cock to cunt, mouth to mouth and everywhere in between, and if the waters were rough they just clung to each other all the harder.

The night a storm lashed the sea around them he lay between her spread legs and pleasured her with his mouth. As the crew ran about frantic on the water-soaked deck he had ears only for her cries, her commands of _slow, fast, harder, softer, there, more, more._

He had always been a quick study.

“Tell me about her,” she said in the calm of morning. His head was pillowed on her breast, their bare legs entwined as she stroked his curls. “The girl you think about when we're fucking.”

Cullen shifted to cup her breast, catching the stiff pink nipple between his fingers. “There wasn't anyone before you.”

“Ah, now, don't give me that.” Mary smiled lazily. “I know a broken heart when I see one. Did you have to leave her behind?”

“No. She was long gone by then.” He swallowed a sudden surge of bitter anger. “It doesn't matter - she's dead now.”

“I'm sorry, lad,” she said softly. “Was it the Blight?”

She'd know the tale - everyone did by now. The Hero of Ferelden slaying the archdemon and then, overcome by her wounds, dying beside its fallen body. He still couldn't reconcile the image with the quiet little mage he remembered, curled up on the bench with her nose buried in a book. Then again, he couldn't picture her aiding in the escape of a maleficar, the same type that tortured him and slaughtered his friends. May as well admit that he hadn't known her at all.

“Yes,” he said shortly. “The Blight.” He trailed his hand down to rest on her soft belly. “Tell me about Angus.”

“No.” Her voice shook. “We should have left at the first sign, should have taken everything we could carry and gotten the fuck out of Ferelden. But he had contracts to meet, investments. And now he's dead, the stupid bastard.” Her fingers tightened in his hair, and she rolled to straddle his waist. “Enough talk. I want you in me.”

She sank down on his cock, and the Blight was forgotten, all thought of lost loves drowned in the slick glide of flesh and rolling, bucking hips. After a time she reversed their positions and hooked her legs over his shoulders, demanding he drive into her harder, faster until she came with a fierce, angry scream.

“Fuck you,” she whispered, fists clenched. “Why didn't you listen? Why did you have to go?”

This time Cullen held her close as she cried, her words echoing in his head. _Why did you have to go?_

 

* * *

 

Chains. The heat was oppressive, the atmosphere even more so. The ugly Tevinter statues looming over the harbour captured a sense of despair so potent he could almost taste it.

 _This is your life now,_ the towering slaves seemed to say. _Forget hope. Forget freedom._

The solid ground seemed to move beneath Cullen's feet and the haze of heat off the stone added to his sense of unreality. He adjusted his meagre belongings on his shoulder and turned back towards the ship.

There she was. A tight smile, a wave of farewell and then a swirl of skirts, a space on the deck as if she had never been.

“Cullen?” A voice as harsh and metallic as the chains in the harbour, and he found himself under the cold, appraising glare of bright blue eyes. “I am Knight-Commander Meredith. Welcome to Kirkwall.”


	15. Juliet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well this turned out super long and a bit smutty.

_Ostwick, 9:41 Dragon Age_

 

After a week back in the city, Juliet had almost shaken the feeling that she would be arrested each time she stepped outside her sister's house. Still, it was a relief to walk back inside the gates and make her way to the cool sanctuary of the inner courtyard. Here, the air smelled of lilacs and a litter of kittens wrestled tirelessly amongst the fallen petals. Here she felt less of a burden than at home, if home she could call it.

“Thank you for having me here.” Lavinia was bouncing her youngest babe on her lap, watching little George and his younger brother line up wooden soldiers along a low wall, and Juliet smiled to see her such a picture of contented motherhood. Briefly she wondered if the world had changed so much, if she might one day be allowed a partner, a family of her own…but such thoughts were premature and likely to end in disappointment. “Mama and Papa are grateful too, I'm sure. I've been hanging around like a shade for the past month.”

“It's nice to finally have my little sister around for a change! Are you sure you won't come to the Northcotes’ ball with us? I do think you'd have fun.”

“Vini, you remember what happened the last time you convinced me to go to a party…”

“You had fun, is what happened. And Mama isn't around to spoil it this time.” Lavinia’s voice became wheedling. “Do say you'll come, Jules. Everyone's going to wear masks, like Orlesians, and there'll be dancing, and young men…”

“If I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to use me to relive your unmarried youth.”

“And so what if I am? You missed out on so much.” She straightened the little one's bonnet. “You deserve a night out.”

Juliet had to admit that life outside the Circle had been lonely, especially at her parents’ estate - she had never been without the company of people her own age for so long. “I'm sure Mama wouldn't approve of you taking me out in polite society. Circle or no Circle, I'm still a mage! She'd be terrified of the scandal.”

“You're a mage?” Five-year-old Oscar had abandoned his soldiers and was staring wide-eyed at his aunt. “Did you do something very bad?”

She smiled indulgently. “Bad? What do you mean, Oscar?”

“Grandmother says bad children become mages.”

“I'm sure she didn't say that, Oscar.” Lavinia drew the boy to her side. “You must have misunderstood.”

“Yes she did,” George piped up helpfully. “She says if we're bad we'll get turned into mages and the templars will take us away.”

“Are they going to take you away, Auntie Juliet?” Oscar's face crumpled. “Mama, I don't want them to. She's not bad, I like her!”

“I…” Juliet looked between her distraught nephew and her sister's mortified expression. “Nobody's taking me away.”

She said it with a confidence she didn't feel. Anything could happen at any time. The templars might be at the door tomorrow to take her back to the Circle, or somewhere much worse. Rumour had it that in Ferelden and Orlais, mages and templars were killing each other on sight - what was to keep the same chaos from spreading to the Free Marches?

And here she was wasting her freedom. Why? For the sake of her mother's social standing? Her feelings? Well fuck her feelings. Juliet was going to the ball.

She caught Lavinia’s eye and gave her a mischievous smirk. “I don't have anything to wear.”

Her sister was momentarily confused, then her face lit up as understanding dawned. “Oh!“ She clapped her hands in delight. “Leave everything to me.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Lady Juliet Trevelyan.”

At the name _Trevelyan_ heads swivelled, a low murmur of curiosity rippling through the ballroom.

 _No, that's wrong,_ she thought. _I'm not a lady. I'm hardly even a Trevelyan._ But the glances were admiring, and she recalled the glimpse of her reflection in the foyer - hair cascading in artful tendrils, her bare throat and shoulders velvet-smooth over the bodice that lifted her breasts in a way Lavinia assured her was fashionable without appearing brazen. And importantly, the enamelled mask, black and burgundy to match her dress, obscuring the top half of her face from view. It made her feel half-hidden, safe from scrutiny even with a dozen pairs of eyes still lingering on her.

“What are you going to tell people about me?” she had asked in the carriage.

“The truth.” Lavinia had shrugged. “You're my sister, here for a visit. What do you want me to tell them, if they ask for more?”

“Vini, I don't even know if harbouring a mage is still a crime. We need a story - I don't want to get you in trouble.”

“Fine,” her sister said blithely. “We'll say you were in the Chantry - it's more or less the truth.”

The girl in the mirror didn't look much like a lay sister, but Maker knew she'd had enough religious instruction in the Circle to convince a room full of drunken nobles. Juliet squared her shoulders, smiled a self-assured smile and descended the stairs.

The dancing hadn’t begun yet, but background music swirled down from the mezzanine where the orchestra was seated. The light of the many chandeliers caught on myriad jewels, worn at throats or sewn into bodices or skirts, or adorning masks both ostentatious and fantastical. There was a moment of uncertainty where Juliet paused, unsure of how to proceed, then at once she found herself surrounded.

“Lady Trevelyan, may I fetch you a drink?”

“Lady Trevelyan! Are you a relation of Bann Trevelyan?”

“What a marvellous dress, Lady Trevelyan - is your dressmaker local?”

“May I have the first dance, Lady Trevelyan?”

“Oh, I...yes, please.” To the drink or the dance or both, she wasn’t sure. “My sister’s dressmaker - Lavinia!” She caught her sister’s attention, hoping the widening of her eyes would be enough to signal her frantic need for help. “The lady here - I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name? Was enquiring about your dressmaker.” A young man with the visage of an emerald-coloured bird pressed a glass of wine into her hand, and she gratefully accepted. “Oh, you didn’t? I have been away for a long time. At a Chantry cloister, near…” Shit, where, where? “Ansburg. Yes, it is a long way from home; then again, my brother is stationed in Kirkwall so it could be worse. Yes, he’s safe - I know, those poor people.”

Fortunately, the nobility of Ostwick were as easily distracted as they were curious; on her second glass of wine and with a near-full dance card, Juliet drifted unmolested towards the buffet table.

“Avoid the ham.” The familiar voice was a little deeper than she remembered. “Trust me.”

Startling green eyes behind a wyvern mask, artfully tousled dark hair - he was a little taller, she thought, a touch broader than the last time they’d met. “Simon?”

“Juliet.” A ready smile, delighted that she’d recognised him. “I thought I was hearing things when they announced you - but here you are. Not even hiding in the garden.”

“Give it time,” she joked weakly. “Much more Ostwick hospitality and I might have run screaming.”

“They do love fresh meat.” Simon propped himself against a marble column, looking her up and down in a way that she might have considered lecherous if it didn’t make her skin shiver. “And a beautiful, marriageable Trevelyan is always worth getting to know.”

The years hadn’t stripped away any of his confidence. She hoped the half-mask was enough to hide the flush on her cheeks. “I wouldn’t go that far.” She picked up a slice of an unfamiliar fruit.

“Beautiful, or marriageable?”

“Either.” She winced as her teeth closed on something hard and leathery, and Simon chuckled.

“You don’t eat that part. Here.” He took it from her and picked up a small silver knife, deftly carving away the soft fleshy fruit from the inedible rind. “What did they feed you in that Circle?”

“Oh, you know.” The rest of the fruit was sweet and slippery and she licked her fingertips clean of the sticky juice. “Sawdust, weevils, magebane…gruel on feastdays.”

“Truly,” he laughed. “I’d like to know more about it. About you.”

She shrugged. “There’s not much to tell.”

“Oh, I doubt that.”

The orchestra struck up a new tune, and the dance floor began to clear. “I promised this dance to someone,” Juliet said. “I can’t quite remember who.”

“He’ll find you soon enough, I’m sure. I’m looking forward to seeing you dance.” Simon’s hand brushed her waist as he reached for a drink, casual but deliberate. “I’d like to know if you remember my lessons.”

“I remember everything.”

His eyes darkened and his mouth opened as if to speak, before a flamboyantly dressed lordling appeared at her side. “Lady Trevelyan? I believe I have this dance.”

“Of course.” She curtseyed to Simon, well aware of how the gesture exposed the curve of her bosom. “I trust we can continue this conversation later?”

“Count on it, my lady.” She caught his wry smile before she was whisked away onto the dance floor; the dance was new but familiar, the steps easy enough to follow.

“Do you know Lord de Hugues well, my lady?”

“Not well,” she answered distractedly. “He’s an old acquaintance. A relative by marriage, I suppose you’d say.” She executed a twirl, a half-step behind the other ladies but otherwise flawless - dancing wasn’t so difficult once one had the hang of it - and smiled winningly up at her partner. “Remind me of your name, ser?”

 

By the time a respite from dancing came Juliet was thirsty, footsore and utterly tired of small talk. Glass in hand she went looking for Simon, seeking a conversation without falsehoods and half-truths. And, if she was honest, to bask a while under that piercing green gaze.

“Juliet?” There was movement in a shadowed alcove, two masked faces peering out cautiously. “Is that you?”

“Petra? Erik?” She stepped out of the flow of partygoers and into the relative quiet of the alcove. “I haven’t seen anyone since...well. Have you been safe?”

“As safe as we can be.” Petra, a dour-faced senior enchanter, looked uncomfortably out of place in her rich gown. “Lord Northcote is a cousin of mine, I’ve been staying here since the Circle fell apart.”

Erik had been an outspoken loyalist - now he looked aged and defeated. “We left not long after you. You heard Lydia was killed?”

“Yes - just before I left.” She remembered the heavy tread of boots, the shouting, the blood. “I was told to flee.”

“It looked like it would be ugly for a while there,” Petra said. “They found the apprentice that did it and put her to the sword. Nobody objected - it was a pointless, evil act. I think some of the templars would have liked us to put up a fight so they had an excuse to do the same to the rest of us.”

“They wouldn’t,” Erik protested.

“They would. You’ve heard the same rumours I have - the slaughter at the White Spire, the Annulment in Dairsmuid, of all places!”

“That’s not here. We’ve been living alongside those templars all our lives - “

“Which means nothing. They were never our friends, Erik.”

It had the tone of an argument that had been rehashed many times over. Juliet broke in. “What happened after that?”

“Nothing.” Petra shrugged. “Everything was quiet. People just drifted off - nobody was stopping us. Classes weren’t held, meals weren’t cooked. Once the food gardens were stripped, there was no sense in staying.”

“All the books left unguarded,” Eric moaned. “The artifacts…”

“There were still templars there. But now they’ve split with the Chantry, who knows?” Petra spread her hands wide, a gesture of hopelessness. “Everything’s up in the air. Maker only knows where everyone else ended up. The ones without family, the elves. Have you been with your sister all this time?”

“No, I made my way to my parents’ estate.”

“Well if you could travel that far safely, that gives me hope for the others.”

 _Safely_ wasn't entirely accurate, but Juliet wouldn’t trouble the woman without cause. “Are we apostates, then? Does anyone know?”

“It’s not easy to make enquiries, obviously.” Erik sniffed. “But the short answer seems to be that there’s no official decree either way. We’re in limbo. If only we’d stayed in the Circle…”

“We’d have been starved out by now. Or killed by thugs, or templars, or each other.”

“Don’t be so dramatic - “

“Dairsmuid,” was all Petra said in return, and Erik fell silent. “You seem to have everyone charmed, Juliet. I always thought you were wasted in the Circle.” The senior enchanter eyed her speculatively. “There’s talk of a conclave in Ferelden, arranged by the Divine to broker peace. Ostwick Circle should be represented, if only we can find the right person. I don’t suppose - “

“There you are.” Simon appeared at her elbow. “Don't forget you promised me a dance.”

“Promised is a strong word.” Juliet caught a worried glance between the two mages. “Simon, these are friends from…”

“The Chantry?” He winked. “Rumours are flying about you, Lady Trevelyan.” He bowed to Petra and Erik. “I hope you don't mind if I steal Juliet away for a minute? I have a desperate need to partner her in the waltz.”

“Do I know the waltz?”

“You will soon.” He led her onto the floor and into a sweeping dance.

“What brings you to Ostwick again, Simon?”

“Business,” he replied vaguely. “I do a lot of travel between here and Wycome.” The fabric of his high-necked jacket was soft beneath her fingers, no doubt expensive. “You dance very gracefully, Lady Trevelyan.”

“I told you once before, I'm no lady.”

“Ah, but the world is changing. Today you're free. Tomorrow you might have a title, inheritance.” His hand drifted an inch south. “Are you this graceful in all things?”

“I've had my share of compliments.” They whirled, and her fingers tightened on his shoulder. “Assuming we're talking about the same thing.”

“Why, what are you talking about?”

“Needlepoint, of course. I hope you didn't mean archery, because I'm awfully rusty at that.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I'm impressed that you find the time for needlepoint.”

“Well we have to amuse ourselves somehow - it can't all be blood magic and rebellion, as enjoyable as that sounds.”

Simon shook his head, grinning. “You're a strange woman.”

“That's why they locked me up.” She wasn't sure if she'd meant it as a joke; either way it fell flat, and they both fell silent.

“Did we do this last time?” he asked eventually. “I can't recall.”

“This dance? I remember your hand on my waist.”

He pressed closer, their cheeks almost touching. “I remember my hands other places.”

“I would have let you do more.”

“I know.” His thumb circled her hipbone, pressed just hard enough to make her gasp. “Is it too late?”

The music, the swirl of dancers around them, all was incidental - there was just the intensity of his green eyes, the steady pressure of his hands. On her bare shoulder, the warmth of his fingers seemed to sear through his soft gloves to her skin.

“We're here now.” She brushed up against him; to an onlooker it might have seemed accidental, a misstep in the dance. “What did you have in mind?”

The song came to an end and abruptly he pulled her from the dance floor. “Quick, before one of these fools tries to steal you away.” Leading her by the elbow he weaved through the crowd, down a flight of stairs and through double glass doors to the garden.

“Simon,” she began but she was interrupted by his mouth on hers, his body pressing hers into the wall.

“Juliet.” Shaking fingers worked at the ties of her mask. “Let me see you.” The night air was cool on her bare face and he seemed to drink in the sight of her, his hands gently cupping her neck. “Maker, but you're as beautiful as I remember.” He kissed her again gently, carefully as though she might crumble into dust. “Did you think about me too?”

She had for a time after their first ill-fated meeting, touching herself surreptitiously beneath the blankets until her breath hitched and her toes curled. Long after the details of his face had faded from memory she could still recall the touch of his hands, the feel of his lips. Until she found new hands, new lips to occupy her thoughts and time. Nevertheless, thinking of it now sent a warm pulse to her groin - or perhaps it was his thigh, pressing insistently between her legs.

“Find us somewhere more private, and I'll show you what I thought of.” She returned the kiss, sucking his lower lip into her mouth.

“I have to tell you something,” he groaned when she released him. “I'm engaged.”

“Well you could have told me that before I let you kiss me.” She pushed him to arms’ length.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to lead you on - “

“Lead me on?” Juliet laughed. “What did you think, that I thought you were going to marry me? I don't like the thought of you being unfaithful with me, that's all.”

He looked equal parts wounded and relieved. “I don't know her,” he said. “We haven't met yet - she's from Nevarra. Rich as a magister and probably twice as ugly.”

“You don't know that.”

“I know she's rich, that's the whole reason my parents are pushing me into it. As for ugly, well…” He shrugged. “There must be some reason her family are so eager to get rid of her.”

That stung more than she wished him to know. “You'd be surprised,” she said, trying to keep the bitterness from her voice, “how little reason some people need.”

His jaw dropped. Then he was pulling his own mask free, his face pressed to hers. “I'm sorry, I didn't think before I - that was a stupid thing to say. Forgive me.” Gloves off, he traced his thumbs over her cheekbones. “They didn't give you up, Juliet. However they might act when they're afraid, you're still their daughter.”

If only that were true - peel away the layers of shame and recrimination, fear and resentment and she wasn't sure there would be anything left. “We didn't come out here to talk about the Trevelyans,” she grumbled, then her voice turned breathy as she canted her hips against his. “Take me somewhere, Simon. Touch me like you've thought about all this time.”

He nodded, his eyes gone dark with need. 

Outside the circle of light spilling from the house they found a nook, a shadowed space between a wall and a fountain just large enough for the two of them to stand, hidden from view by a wild tangle of jasmine.

“I didn't come here for business,” he confessed, his hand sliding up the inside of her thigh.

“Why, then?” She tilted her head to allow access to his roaming lips, moaning her approval when his teeth scraped the tendon at the side of her neck.

“Your sister told me you might be here.”

“I'll kill h- Ohhhh.” He had reached the apex of her thighs and was rubbing his fingers along her clothed slit, the pad of his thumb circling just _so._ “I told her not - _Simon!”_ A single long finger pushed aside her lacy smallclothes and penetrated her folds.

“Do you wish I hadn't come?” She whimpered and he laughed, a soft huff of warmth against her ear. “Want me to stop?”

“N-no.” He rocked her on two fingers now, his other hand massaging her breast as well as he could through the stiff bodice.

“Juliet.” The low timbre of his voice went straight to her cunt and she shivered against him. “You feel even sweeter than I'd imagined.”

“Faster.” She ground into the movement of his hand, chasing her end, but he denied her.

“There's no rush. We can take our time.” He kissed her and she let their tongues slide together, echoing the slide of his fingers in her warm sheath. “I want you to come slowly for me. I want to feel it build, and then feel you come all tight and wet around my fingers. Can you do that for me, Juliet?”

“Yes, Maker yes. Just…please!”

“Shh.” His knuckles brushed her clit and she would have doubled over if not for his body pinning her to the wall. “Slowly.”

When it did come she felt her orgasm rising like a tide, his fingers finally thrusting hard inside her and his thumb pressing into the slick flesh above her sex until her vision went fuzzy around the edges, his hungry mouth swallowing her cry.

“How was it?” he breathed against her neck and she clung tight around his shoulders.

“Fuck me now.”

“Now?” he echoed. “Don't you need…?”

“Now,” she insisted. Impatient, she reached beneath her skirts to pull her smallclothes down properly, one booted foot bracing against the lip of the fountain. “Not slow.”

He freed his cock from the confines of his trousers and thrust into her with a groan. “Are you sure this is how you -”

“Simon,” she gasped. “We're outside, stuck between a wall and a fountain with our clothes still on. This is the only way there is. Now go.”

The garden stayed mercifully empty - anyone about couldn't have failed to hear the impact of his skin against hers over the burbling of the fountain, the soft animal cries of their coupling.

 _Yes._ Her head fell to his shoulder, the old habit of quiet winning over. _Right there._ They moved in frantic unison, his hands gripping her hips hard enough to bruise in the effort to keep her anchored on his cock. 

“Turn around,” he grunted in frustration.

“Give me a second.” Disentangling her leg from around his hip she turned to face the wall, resting her cheek on her outstretched hands. There was a rustle of fabric before she felt him nudge her legs further apart, then he slid back into her with a low moan of relief.

“Still want it fast?” Each thrust pushed her onto her toes, rattled her teeth. She didn't answer in words, just ground back against him. “Hard. So you don't - have - time - to care. Is that it - Juliet?” His last drive into her tore his name from her lips, a shudder of rapture running through her body.

Release, relief. Her surroundings trickled back into her awareness - the flow of water, the scent of jasmine. He slipped from her and she felt empty. 

She waited as he turned away, bringing himself to his own quick finish. “Don't do that,” she said quietly. “Don't try to tell me what I'm thinking.” She smoothed her disordered skirts and plucked a jasmine blossom from between her breasts. “I should go back inside, my sister will wonder where I've gone.” More likely Lavinia would know exactly where she was, imagining the kind of moonlit love scene one might find in one of the more salacious Tethras novels.

“I'm sorry.” Would he never stop apologising? “It was just talk.”

“Forget it. You're probably right, but it's still none of your fucking business.” Unaccountably weary, she turned back towards the party.

“Juliet,” he called. “I have rooms at the Whale and Anchor. I don't have to go home for some time. If you need…anything.”

She managed a smile. “I'll bear that in mind, Lord de Hugues.”

 

* * *

 

It was a quiet afternoon on the estate. Sunshine streamed in through the large windows. A lone fly buzzed through the room, and one of Drakon’s grandsons lifted his head to idly snap at it as it passed.

“Please, Jules, go easy on my poor wife.” Alec lounged by the window, keeping half an eye on their chess game. “I swear, Melinda, she used to be dreadful at chess - I would never have subjected you to this if I knew.”

“When I was seven, you mean?” Alec's wife really was charming. And petite, even in her advanced stage of pregnancy, and pretty. And she had absolutely no head for strategy. “I've had plenty of time on my hands to practice since then.”

Melinda smiled shyly. “I don't mind. I'm learning.” Hesitantly she picked up her knight and nudged aside Juliet’s queen. “Is that allowed?”

Perhaps some head for strategy, then. “It's lucky you're not a betting man, brother - this game isn't over yet.”

“Juliet?” Her mother appeared at the door, her face pinched and disapproving. She seemed to dislike Juliet spending time around Melinda, probably concerned that magic would taint the unborn baby. “There are…people…here to see you.”

“To see me?” It couldn't be the templars, Mama didn't look nearly pleased enough. Somebody unsuitable…Jed and his mercenaries? “I'll be right down.”

“Please do.” Rather than leaving her mother hovered in the doorway, arms crossed over her ample bosom. “I will wait for you.”

Very unsuitable. With an apologetic nod to her sister-in-law, Juliet rose from the table.

“Who is it, Mama?” She followed her mother’s broad back down the stairs, the hound padding behind. “Did they give you their names?”

“In here.” Clara ushered her into the downstairs sitting room, her lips pressed together in a thin line.

“Juliet.” Petra rose from her chair - her ballgown had been replaced by a dark robe that practically screamed _mage._ No wonder her mother was put out.

“Petra.” Juliet's eyes fell on the woman seated next to her and she found herself gaping. “Grand Enchanter?”

“Former Grand Enchanter.” The grandmotherly woman offered a nod of recognition. “I can claim no rank without a Circle to govern, and I'm afraid ours has fallen along with the rest. I am sorry to trouble you at your home, Enchanter Trevelyan.” Her gaze flickered to Lady Trevelyan.

“Don't mind Mama. She can't see two mages in the same room without assuming we're plotting to blow up a Chantry somewhere.”

“Juliet!” Her mother glared. “That joke is in poor taste even for you!”

“I didn't think I was joking,” she muttered. “Will you leave us, Mama?”

“I will not. If you want to conspire under my roof I will hear what you have to say.” Her scowl encompassed all three of them - Bann Trevelyan’s wife held no deference for the rank of Grand Enchanter, former or otherwise.

For her part, the Grand Enchanter merely raised an eyebrow. "Petra?" 

“The Divine's conclave is going ahead,” Petra explained in a rush. “Next month, in Ferelden. At the Temple of Sacred Ashes." She fell silent, shifting from foot to foot. 

“The mages of Ostwick must be represented.” The tiny old woman crossed her gnarled hands daintily in her lap. “Enchanter Trevelyan, if you are willing we'd like you to be our envoy.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Why you?” Sprawled naked on the bed, Simon watched as she rose to fetch a glass of wine.

“The Grand Enchanter is too frail to travel. And they hope my family name might hold some weight.” She looked out over the city - the red rooftops bathed in afternoon sun, the double walls dotted with arrow-loops. Beyond, the ocean sparkled. “And offer some protection.”

“You need protection?”

“I'm a mage,” she reminded him. “And Ferelden’s in the grip of a war. But I doubt any templars will stop and ask my name, if I'm honest.”

Simon sat up. “Should I be concerned?”

“I'm not defenceless. And the conclave is under a truce.” Juliet drained her wine. “But yes, you probably should.”

“And your parents are happy with this?”

“Happy? To rid themselves of an apostate daughter? They paid my passage.” She allowed herself a small, unhappy smile. “The last time I saw them so happy to see the back of me I was being carried away by templars.”

No need to mention the final bitter row. Her mother calling her an ingrate, a disgrace, a blight on the family, her father hovering anxiously in the background. And finally it had all come pouring out in a relentless tide of rage, the years of resentment and swallowed insults.

The only part she could truly regret was calling her father a coward - perhaps there was truth in it but he'd looked so old in that moment, so broken. Tears in his eyes that she hadn't seen since she was a child of seven; then again she'd barely seen him since she was seven, and whose fault was that? They could have visited.

Juliet stretched, knots of tension in her spine that would need more than an afternoon rolling in bed to fix. She linked her hands behind her back, arching until she felt a satisfying _crack._

“You're not shy about your body, are you?”

Jolted out of her thoughts, she saw Simon eyeing her appreciatively. “Should I be?” She padded slowly towards him. “There's not a lot of privacy in the Circle.”

“You definitely should not be.” He lay back in the sheets as she draped herself over him, hands running lightly over her bare back. “You're a work of art.”

She laughed. “You're not so bad yourself. Fancy a journey to Ferelden?”

“I can't,” he said regretfully. “I'll be married by the time you come back.”

 _If I come back._ Juliet brushed her knuckles over his thigh, feeling the muscles beneath his skin twitch. “Give her a chance, won't you? I know what it's like to have to leave everything behind.”

“I will.” He reached up to kiss her lips. “Now can we stop talking about her? I want to think about you.”

“That's fair, I suppose.” She rose to straddle him, his cock bumping against her curls. “Slowly, this time?”

“However you want it.” He watched her with a lazy smile, his eyes devouring her body.

“Slowly,” she confirmed, positioning herself over him and sinking down just an inch. “We have time.”

“Until tomorrow.” His head fell back on the pillows, both their bodies trembling. Tomorrow was the ship, and then Ferelden, and the conclave. After that…who knew?

“Forget tomorrow.” Finally he was resting inside her, and she began to ever so slowly rock against him, a slow fire kindling between her thighs. “We don't need tomorrow when we have tonight.”

Her eyes fluttered shut, lip caught between her teeth in concentration. His hands reached to cup her breasts and roll her nipples gently between his fingers. 

"You've never done this before, have you?" he asked. 

"You know that's not true."

"I don't mean sex. Going slow. Letting yourself feel it."

"Time isn't a luxury we can afford in the Circle." This was nice though, she had to admit. No robes to fumble with, no straining for the sound of approaching footsteps. "It's more or less get off then get going before you're caught."

"I noticed," he laughed. "Fucking you's like a race to the finish."

"Not tonight." Tonight she rose and fell like the tide, letting herself feel every stretch, every inch of him dragging inside her, every sweet ache remaining from their previous exertions. 

"Fuck," he gasped, his fingers tightening. "Juliet, I wish -" 

"No." Her nails dug lightly into his chest. "No wishes. This is what we have right now."

And it was as close to perfect as she had ever dreamed of. 

 


	16. Solona

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair makes his feelings known.

_Southern Ferelden, 9:30 Dragon Age_

 

Alone, she stood on a solitary limestone outcrop, fighting an invisible enemy.

The sword sang to Solona as it cut through the night air. It sang of honour and victory, fire and ice, blood and steel and lyrium and it brought a fierce grin to her face, the heat of battle raging in her veins.

“You're getting good with that.”

She froze mid-swing. “I didn't hear you coming.”

“That's me,” Alistair quipped. “Stealthy. You don't have to stop on my account, you know.”

“I know.” Letting the sword fall to her side, she subtly flexed strained muscles. “I just feel silly practising in front of you.”

“But you train with Zevran.” He crossed his arms. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” There was a quality to him that was more than just his usual awkwardness, like he was building up his courage for something; she wondered what it was.

“You and him…”

“Zevran?” This was the conversation she'd dreaded having with any of her companions. They'd been discreet, she thought, but travelling and sleeping in such close quarters a secret couldn't be kept forever.

“Are the two of you serious?”

Chewing her lip, Solona considered the question. Was he asking if they'd slept together? “What would you call serious?”

“I guess I'm asking if…” Alistair scratched the back of his head, then continued in a rush. “Do you love him?”

“Oh, that. Probably not.” It was as well they were far from camp - Maker knew this conversation was awkward enough without an audience. “It's not something he wants. Or me. It's, you know…” She shrugged. “Sex.”

He laughed nervously. “I don't know if I should be relieved to hear that, but I think I am.”

“Why, are you afraid he's going to hurt me? Even if I thought he'd try -”

“That's not it,” he blurted. “It's that, well, I care about you.”

“I'll be fine, Alistair.”

“No.” He stepped closer. “I mean I care about you.”

Her mouth went dry.

“Solona?” His brows knit together. “I'm sorry to drop this on you, I just…I needed to know if there was a chance that maybe you felt the same. That I wasn't fooling myself.”

“Alistair, I…” She swallowed. “I care about you, too -”

The sword still dangled at her side when he closed the distance and kissed her - it was tentative, almost chaste but for the way he cupped the nape of her neck to tilt her face towards his, the way his lips lingered full and soft. Unexpected warmth blossomed in her chest and she found herself blindly seeking the contact, lips parting a fraction, driven by an impulse she couldn't explain.

“Was that too soon?” He released her suddenly, leaving her breathless and off balance. His amber eyes searched her face and reflected in them was all the confusion she herself felt.

It was easier with Zevran. He was so confident of what he wanted, so assured that she wanted it too that it became clear to her as well. This…this felt like falling, like the jolt of losing one's footing and lurching forward into the unknown.

“I don't know.”

There was something almost mournful in his expression. “I didn't mean to make things difficult for you. I just…heading back to Ostagar, it makes me think about everything we've been through, and…” He ran a hand over his face as if to clear his mind. “I don't know what came over me. I'll leave you alone.”

“Alistair…” Frozen in place, she watched him trudge back towards camp.

 

* * *

 

She eyed Zevran's back in the dim light of the tent. It was chilly, their shared blanket was thin and she felt the urge to bridge the gap between them and curl up to his warm body. He was always warm to the touch, as if he carried the sun of Antiva beneath his skin.

She went as far as reaching towards him before her hand fell back to the mattress. Not half an hour since they'd fucked and here she was, afraid of crossing a line by simply touching him.

“Something troubling you, my warden?”

She sucked in a sharp breath. Growing up in dormitories, she thought she was a good judge of whether someone was asleep, but of course if anyone could fool her it would be Zevran.

 _It's cold_ , is what she should have said. Instead she blurted, “What are we to each other, exactly?”

There was silence, punctuated only by his steady breathing. Then, “We? As in, you and I?”

“Who else would I mean, Zevran?”

He shrugged, one-shouldered. “What do you wish us to be?”

She felt a prickle of irritation. “I'm not having this conversation with your back.”

“It can wait until morning then.” He tugged the blanket up over his shoulder.

“Alistair kissed me.”

Again, the steady breathing of one asleep.

“I know you're awake.”

“What do you want me to say?” He rolled onto his back, still not looking at her. “You wish me to fly into a jealous rage? Beg you to choose me? What?”

“I don't know,” she snapped. “Anything but what you're doing now would be a good start.”

“Doing? I am trying to sleep.” Angrily he rearranged the pillow beneath his head. “First you want nothing from me. Then you tell me this. Why?”

“You don't think it's something that you should know? Me kissing another man?”

“He kissed you. You kissed him. Which is it?”

“Do you even care?” she said childishly. “I thought you didn't want to know.”

“You are right.” He turned his back to her again. “I do not.”

It shouldn't be this hard - hadn't they meant this to be simple, uncomplicated by feelings? She couldn't trace back to when things had gotten so messy between them. Before tonight's encounter with Alistair, certainly. Just sex, but in between were these silences they couldn't seem to break without fear of crossing some invisible boundary between them.

Now here they were, both bristling with hurt and anger and she was still fucking cold.

“I think you should go,” she said.

Finally he turned to look at her, propping himself up on his elbows. “You wish me to leave?” he asked incredulously.

“Not the company. Just my tent.”

Zevran's lip curled. “As you wish, my warden.” He began to pull on his underclothes. “I will not trouble you further.”

She'd made things worse, if that were possible. Should she ask him to stay? The words stuck in her throat, the resentment still simmering in her belly.

He paused at the tent flap, still half-dressed with his leathers tucked beneath his arm. “Solona, I…”

“Just go,” she said wearily. “You sleep better alone, don't you?”

 

* * *

 

_Ostagar, 9:30 Dragon Age_

It had, as Wynne said, been a long day, and she felt its ache in her soul as much as her body. Right now the frozen wasteland that was Ostagar seemed to embody every loss, every crushed hope since her journey began. She sniffed the end of her braid and grimaced - her clothes and hair smelled of the smoke from Cailan's pyre, and if that wasn't a metaphor for her life at this moment, she didn't know what was. 

Digging deep in her pack she found a clean shirt - it had once been Alistair’s and was over long, but would suffice for sleeping. She had just finished folding away her drakeskin leathers - habits of neatness instilled in the Circle died hard - when she heard the soft sound of someone clearing their throat.

“Who is it?” Maker, even her voice was smoky.

“Alistair.”

“Just a second.” She swung her bare legs under the blanket. “Come in.”

The tent seemed instantly much smaller when Alistair’s head and shoulders emerged through the flap. “Hi.”

“Did Wynne kick you out already?” she joked, shuffling aside to make room.

“Wynne?” he asked, confused. “Oh, that.” His boyish features went pink with embarrassment. “Well, she's with Sten - I mean up talking, with Sten. Not that if she wasn't, I would be…well. It looked so bright and welcoming in here from outside.”

Solona looked up at the dancing spirit lights above his head. “They don't bother you?”

He snorted. “We waded through a nest of darkspawn and giant spiders and fought a reanimated ogre, and you're asking me if I'm afraid of a few magical lights?”

“When you put it like that...” She smiled, patting the canvas floor beside her bedroll.

He sat stiffly, both of them acutely aware of their forced proximity. “What a day,” he sighed.

“I know.” She put a tentative hand on his knee. “I'm sorry about Cailan. I barely met him, but he was…kind.”

“I didn't know him much better than you, really.”

“But he was your brother.”

“I suppose he was. My brother.” He drew out the word, testing it.

“Did he know?”

“You know…I couldn't even say. Duncan knew, and I think Loghain knew, so I suppose he must have.” Alistair looked down at her hand, still sitting on his knee, and she realised with a start that she'd been stroking her thumb absent-mindedly back and forth. “If I'd known what was coming, maybe I would have - “

“If we'd known what was coming, lots of things would be different.”

“But it brought us here, didn't it?” His bigger hand closed over hers, warm and rough with callouses.

Her pulse was beating hard; she wondered if he could feel it through her hand. “Is that a good thing?”

“I don't know.” Alistair turned his head to look in her eyes and she almost had to look away from the sorrowful intensity of his gaze. “Is it?”

“If you mean the journey to bring us here, there are things I'd change.” Solona bit thoughtfully at her bottom lip. “But if you mean the two of us here, now…it's nice, I guess.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, his blush returning. “So…would I ruin it if I kissed you again?”

There were a thousand reasons why they shouldn't. Her gaze fell to his full lips, moistened by the tip of his tongue. How weak was she, that all rational thought could be driven out by a surge of selfish need? There was no conceivable future for them, and the transient comfort of the here and now would never be enough for the man beside her. But she wanted it, wanted it so badly that it ached…

Cowardly, she closed her eyes and waited. And soon enough there was the tentative press of his lips on hers. She sighed at the first enquiring flicker of his tongue, parting her lips to allow him access. Rough fingertips brushed her ear, her neck, travelling lower as the kiss deepened. The oversized shirt slipped from her shoulder and Alistair breathed out a low moan as his hand rested on the curve of her breast, breaking the kiss to rest his head in the hollow of her neck.

“I'm sorry,” he panted. “I just…” His shoulders were shaking, she realised, and hot tears kissed her bare skin. She wrapped her arms around his back.

“Hush,” she murmured. The day had taken enough of a toll on her - for Alistair, finding Duncan's discarded weapons, Cailan's desecrated body…after her return to Kinloch Hold, she could imagine all too well how he must be feeling. “You're allowed to have feelings. Morrigan’s not here, and I won't tell Sten.”

Alistair gave a reluctant snort of laughter, followed by a sniff. “It's all part of my plan, you know. To seduce you by weeping all over you like a baby.”

“Come here then, you big baby.” Solona settled back against the pillows, cradling his head in her lap and trying not to think about her lack of smallclothes. It didn't help that when she stroked his hair he nuzzled into her thigh, sending a spreading warmth through her veins.

“I wish I weren't Maric’s son,” he mused. “And we weren't Grey Wardens. We could run away together.”

“That would make me an apostate,” she reminded him gently. “And if you weren't a warden, you'd be a templar by now.”

He gave a low grumble of protest. “Can't we just be you and I, for once?”

“I'm not sure that's how it works,” she replied, and he glanced up at the weary sadness in her voice.

“I love you,” he said with conviction. “I won't go without saying it, when we don't know what might happen next.”

Her hand stilled in his hair. “That's all the more reason not to say it.”

“No,” he said obstinately. “I've lost people who were important to me, and I missed the chance to know them better. I'm not doing that with you.” His fingers found the top of the blanket. “Wait…is this my shirt?”

“It was. I ended up with it after Flemeth rescued us, and then…” She shrugged. “It was just comfortable.”

“You sneaky shirt thief.” Alistair felt the soft fabric between thumb and forefinger, the movement gently tickling her ribcage. “It looks better on you, anyhow.” Once more, he rubbed his cheek against her lap, and his warm hand fell to her hip. The shirt had never felt so thin. “Solona…”

“I can't give you what you want, Alistair.” The more she tried to breathe naturally, the more unnatural it felt.

“What do I want?” His fingers tightened on the curve of her hip, his lips twitching upwards at her sharp intake of breath.

“Love,” she replied. “Promises. You'd want all of me, and I can't offer you that. I wish I could.”

“I do want that.” His hand slipped beneath the blanket, strong fingers encircling her ankle, squeezing lightly at her calf. “Why not?”

“You'll be king, and I'll be -” A warden, wandering the Deep Roads until her inevitable death? Back in the Tower under the renewed suspicion of Cullen and his templar colleagues? Or somewhere else entirely... “Gone.”

“I don't have to be king,” he muttered. “I'd be better as a warden. We could stay together…”

“That's a dream, Alistair,” she said sharply, heedless of his pout. “Even if you didn't have a duty to Ferelden, we don't know where life will take us. Do you want to throw yourself into something that will end in heartbreak?”

“I want to throw myself into you,” he said obstinately. “I mean - that didn't sound right. I want you. Whatever comes.” He fondled her knee now, and she felt her resolve slipping as his fingers inched up her thigh, drawing the shirt hem with them. “I just want to make you happy.”

Day-old beard growth scratched her leg, his lips brushing the inside of her knee. When he looked up at her his pupils were blown wide with desire. “Let me make you happy.”

Weak. She could turn down the promises of demons with hardly a second thought, yet when he bent to kiss her cunt she yielded fully, her thighs parting to the cautious sweep of his tongue. She felt his moan of appreciation as his mouth explored her centre, looking down to see his amber eyes glittering up at her before he returned his full attention to mapping her contours, teasing and tasting. She couldn't breathe but in tiny gasps, her fingers gripping the blankets, his tunic, anything for purchase.

Too much, too fast, with Alistair she could never explain this away as two grieving, broken people seeking comfort, it would have to mean more. It _did_ mean more, it meant everything, everything…lust, and love, and friendship, and comfort, and white hot need, tangled together until she couldn't unravel the threads if she'd wanted to.

And now she was coming hard, his firm hands pinning her down as he drank in her every shiver and twitch, mouth curved in a deserved smile of self-satisfaction. She bit her knuckle but it didn't drown out the sound that emerged from deep in her throat, plaintive and wanton, or the desperate gasping for air that followed, the whimper of protest when his wet, wondrous mouth finally left her.

“Wow,” she heard him whisper, rubbing calming circles on the soft skin of her belly. “Did I do that?” He rested his head on her hip, seemingly reluctant to leave behind the heat between her legs. She found herself stroking his hair again, needing to keep touching him, keep him from slipping away.

“Did you like that?” she asked.

“Like it? I'd be happy to do nothing else. I mean, obviously I'd like to do other things, but that -” he kissed the damp inside of her thigh. “That was special.” A note of worry crept into his voice. “Did you? I've never done anything like that before. To be honest, I was making it up as I went along. It wasn't uncomfortable, or annoying, or boring…?”

“Alistair,” she chided. “Did I seem bored to you?”

Contentment crept back over his face. “No,” he said proudly. He shifted, pulling her shirt down and covering her with the blanket before laying his head on her shoulder. “Do you mind if I stay? It's just Wynne and Sten, and they'll probably disapprove, but…”

“Let them.” With a lazy wave of her hand, she dismissed the glowing lights around them. “First smart remark and I'll feed them to the darkspawn.”

“I think we killed them all.”

“It's a Blight. There'll be more.” Drifting in the lead-limbed afterglow of her orgasm, she felt sleep creeping in.

“See?” she heard as if from a long way off. ”This is why I love you.”

 _Don't,_ she thought, before exhaustion took her.


	17. Cullen

_ Kirkwall, 9:31 Dragon Age _

 

_ Amell. _

Cullen hadn’t thought to hear it again after leaving Ferelden, but his enquiries into the Hawke sisters kept turning up that name - a name that was once one of the most honoured in Kirkwall, now tainted by shame and disrepute. The women’s mother had been a daughter of that house, the rumours went, before eloping with an apostate to Ferelden.

He couldn’t see much resemblance in the sharp-featured, sharp-tongued elder sister. She was either the templar order’s greatest ally in the city, or a thorn in their side, and he was having trouble deciding which - perhaps both? Certainly she was willing enough to help; she could go places templars could not, loosen the tongues of those who would have slammed the door in the Knight-Captain’s face, and she had valuable allies and fighting skills that were beyond impressive. Still, her father had been an apostate and she openly flaunted her disregard for authority. 

“I’ve been hearing interesting things about your sister, Hawke,” he’d remarked to her one day in the Gallows courtyard. “I hope they’re not true.”

There had been a flash of something in her eyes then, hidden as quickly as it came. That moment more than anything had convinced him that she would be a formidable enemy if crossed. She'd deflected smoothly. "Keep an ear out for rumours about me instead, Cullen - they're likely to be far more accurate, and far more interesting."

Bethany, for her part, was remarkably inoffensive, as long as one could ignore the distracting expanse of her tanned bosom. She reminded him more of Solona: there was a softness, a shyness about her that contrasted sharply with her sister’s brash nature.

He hadn’t exchanged so much as a handful of words with her before the day Meredith called him to her office. Despite his seniority, that ice-blue glare could still make his blood run cold. “Knight-Captain. We have word of an apostate hiding in Lowtown.” Meredith preferred to stand rather than sit behind her desk, the better to look down her nose at the unfortunate target of her scrutiny.

“Do you have the address? I will dispatch a team at once.”

“I would prefer you dealt with this personally, Cullen.”

Rigid discipline allowed him to keep the distaste from his expression. Bringing in apostates was thankfully beneath his station most of the time; it wasn’t the potential for danger he disliked, but the displays of emotion - grief, anger, despair, as mages were often dragged away from their weeping families. Cullen took satisfaction in removing mages from the streets of Kirkwall, but he was not one to revel in their suffering.

“Very well, Knight-Commander. Do we have the name of this mage?”

“Bethany Hawke,” she rasped, and his heart sank. Those shrewd eyes searched his face for a reaction. “It seems to be somewhat of an open secret that Mistress Hawke was suspected of magic. May I ask, Cullen, what has taken us so long in apprehending her?”

“They were mere rumours, Knight-Commander.”

“Rumours,” she spat, “are to be investigated. Rumours are what allow us to track down and apprehend dangerous apostates before they can harm the people of Kirkwall, or have you forgotten your job?”

“I have not.” Indignance and shame warred within him - he could not honestly tell himself that her name had not protected her from his attentions, and not the name  _ Hawke,  _ but the other, secret name that gnawed at his consciousness _. _ “The elder Hawke has been a valuable ally this past year -”

“Alice Hawke ventured into the Deep Roads over a month ago. We have no reason to believe that she will return, and even if we did we cannot make exceptions. If this lapse of duty is borne of some misplaced sense of Ferelden solidarity -”

“Certainly not!”

“Do not presume to interrupt me, Knight-Captain! You will take two men to Lowtown and apprehend the apostate, at once. Once this is carried out to my satisfaction we will discuss your motivations in failing to follow through with this earlier. At length.”

There was not a word he could say in his defence. Cullen stood straight, his feet planted apart and jaw firm. “Yes Ser, Knight-Commander. And the family?”

“It is as you say: the Hawke family have provided the templars with valuable help. Although…” She left the thought unfinished. “If they cooperate there should be no need to make an example. If not, well…” Meredith’s eyes were not so much creased as narrowed by her cold smile. “You know what protocol demands.”

“Indeed.”

“Dismissed. And Cullen - you have been granted seniority beyond your years. Don’t let the order’s faith in you be misplaced.”

 

* * *

 

 

It was approaching evening, typically muggy but without the added torment of the Kirkwall sun. The sea breeze provided further respite as the ferry rocked towards Lowtown.

“Have you seen this ‘Awke?” the older of his subordinates said. “They say she’s got…” He gestured to his chest, the movement of his hand making his meaning clear.

“I’ve seen the other,” the younger templar said wistfully. “Curves like a bloody vase, she’s got. Any chance she’s a mage too, Ser Cullen?”

“You forget yourselves,” he snapped. “We go to apprehend an apostate, not to provide the two of you with distractions it seems you can ill-afford.”

“Yes, Ser Cullen,” and “As you say, Ser Cullen,” they muttered. The remainder of the journey was conducted in uneasy silence, Cullen’s fingers gripping the rail with a force that would have his knuckles white beneath his heavy gauntlets.

“This is the place, Ser,” the older man said when they reached their destination. It seemed an inauspicious dwelling for the Hawke sisters, little more than a hovel - no, a hovel in truth, neglect evident in the way the door almost hung from its hinges, the stairs smelling of cat piss. At some point recently flowers had been planted in a pot, only to be torn out and scattered by bored urchins.

“Wait out here,” he ordered the older templar. “Make sure there’s no trouble.” As an afterthought he removed his helmet, flattening his curls into some semblance of dignity - it might be less of an ordeal if she were confronted with a familiar face.

His knock drew a menacing growl from behind the door, and the men’s hands tightened on their sword pommels. There was grumbling, a muttered, “Get back, you bloody mutt,” and the door opened a crack to reveal a grizzled, suspicious face.

Gamlen Amell, Leandra’s ne’er-do-well brother and the last of the line to go by that name. There was a weary resignation in his eyes as he looked the templars up and down. “What d’you want?” he demanded, as if he didn’t already know.

“We’re here to see Mistress Bethany.”

“She expecting you? I don’t know if she’s home.” 

Doubtful in a place that size. “I’d urge you to cooperate, Serah.”

“Serah, is it?” He snorted. “Can’t say anyone’s called me that in years.”

“Uncle.” Her gentle voice came from somewhere behind him, wavering just slightly. “Let them in.”

The man glowered, but the door eased open. If anything the interior of the hovel was more dismal than the outside, dark and musty, the floor strewn with stale rushes. Adjusting to the dim light, Cullen saw the source of the growling was an impressive specimen of a Mabari hound, brindle and pacing suspiciously until Bethany called it to her side. An older woman who must be Leandra lingered behind them, hands pressed to her mouth and hunched over as though she’d been punched in the belly. It was an all too familiar sight, the parent who had convinced themself their child was safe until the day he came knocking.

Then there was her. The conversation on the boat came back to him and it was an effort to keep his eyes from straying to her chest; then instead he looked at her face and that was worse, seeking and finding traces of Solona in her mouth, her chin, her wide eyes that were brown instead of grey.

“Mistress Hawke.” He inclined his head. “And your mother, I presume…?”

“Yes.” Her mouth was pinched with fear, but to her credit she held her head high. “Mother, this is Knight-Captain Cullen.”

Leandra merely shook her head.

“You know why we are here,” he said bluntly. “I must ask you to come with us. It would be wise to cooperate.”

“Of course.” She looked around, dazed. “May I have a moment to fetch a few things…?”

“I’m afraid not. Everything you need will be provided when you arrive at the Circle. You may take a moment to say goodbye.”

The young woman nodded. She first gave her uncle a swift peck on the cheek, while the man glared blearily at Cullen, then knelt to scratch the Mabari behind the ears as the beast panted with unease. It was a heartfelt gesture, but it also gave her time to steel herself before turning to her mother.

“No…” Leandra moaned. “Not you too. I can’t bear it.”

“You can, mother.” Bethany wrapped her arms around the frail woman’s shoulders. “Be strong for me. Alice will be home soon, I’m sure of it.”

She could not know how right she was - at that moment there was a commotion outside, voices raised before the door swung open. Cullen glared at his subordinate, and the man shrugged.

“You said make sure there’s no trouble, Ser. Seemed less trouble to let her in.”

Hawke looked a little ragged around the edges, pale as you would expect from a person who’d emerged from weeks underground. But she still moved lightly, dangerously, her eyes narrowed on Cullen. “What’s going on?”

“Please don’t do anything.” It was Bethany who spoke, a plea in her voice that Hawke chose to respect for the moment. The older sister’s eyes remained on Cullen, sharp as razors.

He was within his rights, he reminded himself. Taking in mages was his duty, and he would not be cowed or made to feel guilty. “Mistress Bethany is being taken to the Circle of Magi in the Gallows.”

“A little tour is fine, but this better not be permanent.” He knew from experience, humour from Hawke was no guarantee of safety. Luckily for him, Bethany spoke again.

“Of course it’s permanent.” Hawke glared at her, and she shook her head. “It had to happen eventually, didn’t it?”

“Consider yourselves fortunate.” Cullen was aware that he walked a fine line between asserting his authority and goading the woman into the sort of rash action she was known for. “Her cooperation allows us to spare you the punishment for harbouring a dangerous mage...this once.”

Hawke’s eyes flickered to her ashen-faced mother - for Leandra’s sake, if not her own, she would back off. Still, he saw the machinations behind her eyes, risks being assessed, odds being calculated. She’d soon discover that even she couldn’t help her sister now, save through her continued friendship with the order. Bethany was escorted outside, but Cullen found his path obstructed.

“A word.” Hawke gave him her customary smile, a reminder that templar or no, she could stab him in five places before he even drew his sword. “If any harm comes to her, I’ll have your balls off.”

He wished he had the advantage of height to face down that cool glare. “If Mistress Bethany follows the rules, no harm will come to her.”

“To put it politely, Cullen, that’s fucking horseshit.” Her eyes blazed. “Your Gallows are rotten to the core. And if any hint of that rottenness touches my sister, Maker help you.” There was fury behind her outburst, but also pain - another sibling lost, a family torn asunder. His brother’s coin weighed heavy in his pocket.

“Good day, Hawke.” In a low voice, he added, “I will protect her the best I can. You have my word.”

Hawke nodded, tense and unforgiving, before turning to her mother. He was glad Bethany missed the sight of Leandra falling to her knees, Hawke crouching to comfort her as she wept openly.

_ For the safety of Kirkwall, _ he reminded himself.  _ For the greater good. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now I'm toying with the idea of a Hawke/Cullen hookup, which will obviously be poorly conceived and highly dysfunctional. Let me know what you think in the comments!


	18. Juliet

_Haven, 9:41 Dragon Age_  
  
Cullen stalked towards Juliet, a sneer on his lips and a predatory glint in his eye.

“I hope they're right about you.” He stopped inches from her face, muscles coiled like a cat about to strike. Wait - why wasn't he wearing a shirt? “We've lost a lot of people getting you here.”

Where was here? It was snowy and she was surrounded by strangers staring at her with dull, accusing faces. They wanted her blood, she somehow knew, but she couldn't remember why. “Drop your weapon,” Cassandra snarled and she looked down at her manacled hands.

“I don't have a weapon!”

The seeker growled and drew her sword. “Drop. Your. Weapon. Now!”

“I can't!”

She looked to the crowd for help, but they remained sullen and silent.

“You heard her, apprentice.” The templar wrapped his hand around her throat - Maker, he was so warm, and his voice was a sultry growl. “Drop your weapon.”

“I can't!”

“A shame.” His amber eyes raked slowly over her body before he stood back. “Cassandra.”

“No!” But it was too late - the sword hung in the air above her shackled wrists for a moment, then the gleaming steel fell…

 

* * *

 

“Shit.”

It was barely dawn outside the little hut they'd assigned to her. Already she could hear stirrings of activity - the rumble of carts wheels, the thunk of an axe on wood, and farther distant the ring of blunted practice weapons.

It was the last sound that made her face redden, recalling the - nightmare? Was that what it was? Because she was sure she shouldn't wake from a nightmare feeling oddly aroused. Then again, sex dreams shouldn't end in having your hands cut off by an irate Nevarran Seeker. If dream Cullen could just stick to being menacing…

Not that the real Cullen was particularly menacing. No, the only thing he had in common with the dream version was an uncanny knack for leaving her flustered and confused. She wouldn't let him see it, of course - reticence on his part was met with confidence on hers, coolness with flirtation until he was the one who blushed and stammered.

Groaning, she left the warm cocoon of her blankets to face another chill Haven morning. There were more pressing issues to face than her strained relationship with the Inquisition’s Commander. The mage-templar conflict still raging in the Hinterlands, for one. The neverending requisitions and requests for the Inquisition’s help and protection that somehow always spiralled into a thousand more things needing her attention.

Oh yes, and the fact that the Veil was torn in a thousand places and only she seemed capable of patching them up.

So never mind that Cullen was skittish around her. Never mind that she couldn't tell half the time if he saw her as a colleague or a friend or a dangerous liability - let dreams be dreams, and save her waking hours for worrying about the things that mattered.

She put on socks so thick that she struggled to get her boots on, for a moment wishing that she had a garment half as warm as Cullen’s cloak seemed. But that led her down the path of thinking about the body beneath that cloak, and that train of thought was not at all productive.

In the grey light outside she spied Varric by the fire, a bowl of porridge warming his fingers.

“Freckles!” he greeted her. “You look like shit.”

“And there's the talent with words that makes the ladies swoon,” she quipped in return. “Any more where that came from?”

“You want more, you'll have to buy the books.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I meant the porridge.”

“Oh! Lady Herald!” A passing kitchen boy wheeled and almost dropped the stack of empty bowls he was carrying. “I'll get you some at once. Sorry for the delay, milady!”

“It's really not -” she started to say, but he had already dashed off towards the tavern.

Varric watched with evident amusement. “Should be used to that by now, shouldn't you?”

Juliet glowered at the dwarf. “Believe it or not I didn't have servants fawning over me in the Circle.” She watched after the retreating boy. “It was almost easier when they wanted to kill me.”

“As a friend of the Champion’s after Kirkwall I can tell you that gets old pretty quickly.”

Juliet took the time to see him properly - the weariness around his perpetually laughing eyes, the hunch of his shoulders when he thought back to those early days after the Kirkwall rebellion. “People were very angry, then?”

“That's an understatement,” he laughed. “The Chantry had been blown to rubble…rubble that rained down on the city and destroyed people's homes. It took some convincing for people to believe that Blondie was acting on his own, especially with he and Hawke…”

“Wait, Anders and Hawke?” Varric flinched and Juliet lowered her voice. “Sorry, that just wasn't in the book.”

“For obvious reasons. But good to know you've read my work!”

“Only Tale of the Champion, I'm afraid…but my sister loved Swords and Shields.”

“Maker's breath,” he cursed, shaking his head, “people actually read that trash?”

“That bad?” Her attention drifted - Cullen was heading up from the practice yard, scowling at a sheaf of reports. Just through the gate he met her eyes and hesitated, with the look that was becoming so familiar to her. Unguarded at first, it was almost like the sight of her caused him pain. Then he became distant, stern but wary.

“Careful with that one, Freckles,” said Varric in a low voice.

“Careful?” With an effort she broke from Cullen's stare. “Careful how?”

“He's not a bad guy.” The dwarf frowned, picking his words carefully. “But he's got history with mages. Bad history. And fear makes people…unpredictable.”

“Really? In my experience it makes them very predictable.” They both fell silent as Cullen approached.

“Good morning, Herald. Varric. A fine day, is it not?”

Juliet shivered. “It's certainly…less cold than it could be. Are you heading to the Chantry?”

“I am. Would you care to walk with -”

“Herald! Milady.” The kitchen boy skidded to a halt, quailing under the Commander’s glare. “ Begging your pardon, milady, your breakfast.” He held out a steaming bowl of porridge and she took it gratefully, the warmth seeping through her gloves and bringing the blood back into cold fingers.

“That's wonderful, thank you…” She paused, waiting for his name, but the terrified boy offered just a bow before running off again.

“Most of the kitchen staff are hired from among the refugees,” Cullen offered by way of an apology. “He was probably herding druffalo until a few months ago.”

“He's doing a fine job.” Juliet sniffed at the porridge, catching the hint of spices and dried apple.

Varric eyed the bowl enviously. “Is that honey?” he demanded. “And cream! Who do I have to bribe to get cream?”

“I didn't bribe anyone,” she protested through a mouthful of food.

“Of course you didn't - you're the Herald.”

She shrugged. “Swap?”

Cullen began to edge away. “I should leave you to your breakfast…”

“No, ‘sfine. I can walk and eat at the same time.”

“And talk, evidently.” He turned away quickly, leaving her unsure if she'd just witnessed the Commander making a joke. “We've had reports of Grey Warden activity on the Storm Coast. What's more concerning is that the follow-up we requested never came - we seem to have lost contact with our scouts in the area.”

Juliet nodded in passing to the dour quartermaster. “So we send soldiers?”

“Well…” Abashed, Cullen paused outside the Chantry door. “The thing is, they reported a lot of rift activity along the beach. As it stands it will be difficult for our forces to navigate -”

“You need me to go,” she said matter-of-factly, scraping the last of the porridge up with her tin spoon.

He frowned. “If there were another way…”

“It's fine, Cullen. This way the watchtowers will be built by the time we get back to the Hinterlands and we can move on with Dennet. Everything should be easier with some decent mounts.”

“Do you ride, Lady Trevelyan?”

She glanced up at him, caught off guard by what appeared to be a casual question. “Me? Not in a long time. Not on my own, anyway. I suppose I'll have to learn.”

“I'm sure you'll do well,” he said before blushing. ”I mean, you seem an…adaptable…sort of person.”

“Thank you, I think.” She caught his longing glance towards the door. “You go ahead, I'll see what this messenger wants.”

Relieved, Cullen bowed and made a hasty retreat.

 _Well, he called me a person,_ she thought as she made her way to the young man by the Chantry door. _There's progress._


	19. Solona

_ Brecilian Forest, 9:30 Dragon Age _

 

“Glorious, isn't it?” Solona looked up at the sound of Leliana’s lilting voice. “I do love the splendours of Val Royeaux but there's something so peaceful about the forest.”

“I don't know about peaceful,” she replied. “Perhaps with less werewolves.” Letting her chin rest on her knees, she returned to watching the pool’s surface, the trickling flow of water making fallen leaves dance in slow circles as the last rays of sunlight glittered around them. Lush ferns grew around the tangled roots of trees that seemed to stretch up into the very sky. “Back in the Tower I could never have imagined all of this. Everything just…growing, wherever it wants to.” 

Unexpected tears stung her eyes and she ducked her head to wipe them on her sleeve. She heard Leliana settle onto the ground beside her. A moment later an arm rested over her shoulders, soft lips pressing against her temple. 

“So much was stolen from you,” the bard murmured. “All those years.”

“No.” Her fingers clenched in the mossy ground. “There's no point thinking of it like that. I wasn't tortured.” She felt Leliana flinch. “Or sold. Anybody here could tell a story sadder than mine. And we're alive where others aren't. Duncan, Cailan…”

“Cailan.” Leliana felt for her hand and squeezed it. “Wynne told me. Was it very terrible?” 

“Yes,” she said shortly. 

“I am sorry.”

“How will he be remembered, when men like Loghain write the histories? Who decides what stays, and what…” She trailed off. 

“Through the stories of those who knew the truth. Like you.”

“And when we're gone?”

“That's the power of stories, Solona.” The bard smiled. “They live on.”

“I hope that's true. All this - there has to be something to show for it, even if we fail.” She looked down at her boots. “You won't let them forget, will you Leliana? That the Wardens weren't traitors, and a mage fought for them?”

“Together we will help them remember. Perhaps that is part of the reason why the Maker led me to you.”

“I'm glad he did.” Solona stood, brushing leaf litter from her hands. “We should get back to the others before it gets dark.”

Back at camp Wynne was attempting to show Alistair how to darn a sock, his face set in a frown of intense concentration as he gripped the needle in his warrior's hand. Solona paused at the top of the rise and watched him pull the thread through the tatty fabric. 

Could it be possible that he wanted  _ her, _ this beautiful specimen of a man? A grey-eyed, brown-haired, bookish Tower mage with even less family than himself. And yet when he glanced up his face softened at the sight of her, a broad grin lighting up his already handsome features. She felt her entire body sing in response. 

“There you are!” Even his voice, the unabashed joy at seeing her again sparked a surge of happiness that was painful in its intensity, happiness that felt more like sadness. “Did you catch anything?”

“Leliana did. I found some roots and greens that might or might not kill us.” She held them out for Wynne’s inspection. 

“Well, these are…” The older mage recoiled slightly. “That’s a nice fat rabbit, at least.”

“I should have been an assassin,” Solona joked. “I could find poisons in a kitchen garden.”

The unlucky rabbit and a few wafers of elven bread made enough of a meal for the four of them. It was a mild night and they huddled around the small fire more for comfort than warmth, Dog sometimes pricking his ears up at a distant sound before resting his massive head back on his paws. Alistair’s leg pressed against Solona’s, prompting a raised eyebrow from Wynne.

“Well I don’t know about you,” she said finally, “but I’m exhausted. Time for bed?” She looked pointedly at Solona and Alistair until the latter gave a nervous laugh.

“It is quite late, isn’t it?” He gave Solona a shy peck on the cheek before rising. “I’ll just be over here. Sleeping. By myself.”

They had left the tents with their companions in favour of travelling light. Solona could see just the barest hint of stars through the thick forest canopy as she lay in her bedroll, listening to the sounds of those around her gradually settling into sleep. Alistair shuffling to find a comfortable position, Dog rising and circling innumerable times before lying back down, finally Wynne’s delicate snore.

“Are you awake?” Alistair whispered, and she heard a sleepy grumble from Leliana.

“Me?”

“No...never mind.”

More time passed during which the only sound was the distant trickle of water. Then she heard a stirring, and Alistair pressed up against her back, warm and solid. “I think they’re finally asleep.”

“Not if you don’t keep your voice down.” She shuffled back into his embrace.

“Voice down. Got it.” He pushed her braid aside to kiss the back of her neck and she made a soft sound of contentment. “That goes for you too.”

“Shh,” she replied.

There was a rustle from the direction of Wynne’s bedroll and a pointed throat-clearing, and they both fell silent. Alistair stroked her hair for a time before his hand slipped beneath the blankets and under her shirt, resting hot against her ribcage. She covered his fingers with hers.

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered.

“When? I’ve been right here.”

“All the time. Maker, how is it so hard to get you alone?”

Solona shifted her hips against him, hearing him hiss when she brushed the tight bulge in his trousers. “You want to get me alone?” she whispered.

“You know I do.” He moved restlessly against her, his hand sliding around her front - foiled by her waistband his fingers pressed down against the seam between her legs, making her gasp softly. “I want to touch you all the time. Everywhere.” There was no mistaking his erection now, grinding against her through layers of fabric - she reached behind her to feel the shape of him with her hand and he groaned, rutting faster and harder against her. “Maker, I can’t be quiet. I can’t.”

She twisted and stopped his mouth with hers, their mouths clashing in an artless kiss. “Come with me.”

“Not here,” he protested.

“No,” she laughed softly, reluctantly prising his hand from between her thighs. “Come with me.” Gathering her blanket, she stood up carefully and drew him with her. “We’re going to be alone.”

Alistair followed her unquestioningly from the clearing, only stopping when they broke through the ring of trees to pull her in for a hungry kiss. “Is it safe?” he finally asked. “Even the trees could attack us around here.”

“Dog will keep watch,” she said and the Mabari whined in soft assent, flopping down on the path they had followed. A few paces on she spread the blanket over a hollow beneath a tree. “Will this do?” 

“Solona.” Alistair buried his face in the soft skin of her neck. “I don't want to make do. I wanted to wait for the perfect time, but…”

“There is no perfect time,” she finished for him. “But it doesn't have to be perfect - it can still be good.”

“You know I've never done this before…”

“Follow my lead.”

Solona found herself nervous as a virgin again as they fumbled with each other's buttons and fastenings. She ran trembling hands over the planes of his chest, brushed her thumbs over flat dark nipples that were surprisingly sensitive. 

“Oh,” he sighed. “Does it feel like that for you?” 

“Would you like to find out?” Smiling, she untied her breast band until only her hands held it in place. Alistair’s eyes were wide and dark, his lower lip caught between his teeth. 

“Can I?” he breathed, and she nodded. Gently he drew her hands away and with them the swath of fabric, baring her breasts to the moonlight. “Oh,” he said again. Tentatively his hands cupped the firm peaks. He mimicked her earlier action, rubbing the pads of his thumbs over her taut nipples and revelling in her low whimper of need. Bending to her breast he sucked the tip into his mouth and she had to grasp his shoulders to keep upright, her legs suddenly turning to water. 

With a hand at the small of her back he eased her down onto the blanket, still languishing attention on her breasts as he fumbled to get her leggings down over her hips. “Let me,” she whispered. She eased out of leggings and smalls, not letting Alistair pause to admire her before she gave him the same treatment. Naked, they kissed frantically, messily, both gasping when his shaft bumped against her slick folds.

“Fuck,” he moaned, his hips pinning her down as they thrust blindly against her. “I can't… I need…”

“Alistair,” she wheezed, “you're squashing me.”

“Maker's breath!” He rocked back on his heels, his cock standing dark and proud between his thighs. “I'm sorry, I'm an oaf. Are you alright?” 

“I'm fine,” she assured him. “Just…let me help you.” Leaning up she wrapped her fingers around his length - it was so hot and thick, pulsing gently under her touch. “Here - put your weight on your elbows.” She lay down, guiding him between her legs, feeling the broad tip nudge at her entrance and wondering briefly if he'd fit. Under her guidance he sank in and she shivered, welcoming the slow stretch of her walls around him. With every inch his eyes flickered to her face, searching for a sign of pain or discomfort but all she felt was completion, her hand finally shifting to the small of his back as he came to rest fully inside her. 

“Is that alright?” Sweat was beading on his forehead, the tension apparent in his straining arms. 

“Better than alright.” She felt wonderfully, perfectly filled, the throb of desire growing stronger beneath her belly. Her hands guided his hips, the first jerky movements gradually settling into an easy rhythm. The wonder in his face remained as he felt the grip of her muscles around him and heard the tiny sighs and whimpers his movements provoked. The discipline of his training showed in his even, measured strokes, the urge to go faster firmly ignored as he focused on prolonging her pleasure. 

Growing in confidence Alistair shifted his weight onto a single elbow, surging forward with each thrust in a way that ground his pelvis against hers until she was gasping, pressing needily back against him. Maker, everything about him was so large, his broad shoulders blocking the stars and his hips spreading her wide, his fingers easily spanning her breast as he pinched and rolled her nipple. The thick length of him sliding in and out of her gripping heat, twitching inside her as he finally spent himself with a hoarse gasp. 

She expected him to roll off her then, but he was determined. “Come with me,” he mumbled. Broad hands lifted her hips and even as he softened inside her he rocked her against him, chasing the moment when she keened and shook, her fingers digging into the hard muscle of his shoulders. Only when she was limp and sated did he slip free, a warm trail of liquid following in his wake. 

“I've made a mess there, haven't I?” he said apologetically. 

“It's normal.” She trailed a hand through his damp hair. “Was that what you hoped for?” 

“No.” Tilting her chin up with a gentle finger, he kissed her tender lips. “It was more.”

 

* * *

 

Morning found them in their respective bedrolls, bodies and blankets rinsed clean in the stream. Still, more than once over breakfast Solona found Wynne watching them with sharp eyes, cataloguing each brush of fingers, each blush and smile and sideways glance. 

“May I have a word?” she asked at last.

“Yes?” Solona followed her warily to a short distance from camp, bracing herself for a lecture.

Wynne nodded in Alistair’s direction. “You're quite taken with each other, aren't you?” She was not put off by Solona’s blank look. “It's hard not to notice the doe-eyed looks he gives you. Especially when he thinks no one's watching.”

Despite herself, she felt a warm glow at Wynne’s words. “Why do you ask?” she said carefully.

“I've noticed your blossoming relationship, and I wanted to ask you where you thought it was going.”

She shrugged. “Does it have to go anywhere?”

Wynne’s mouth tightened into a disapproving line. “Alistair is a fine lad, skilled in battle, but quite inexperienced when it comes to affairs of the heart. I would hate to see him get hurt.”

“And you think I’m going to hurt him?”

“Not intentionally, no. But there is great potential for tragedy here, for one or both of you. You are both Grey Wardens, and he is the son of a king.” She crossed her arms, the senior enchanter delivering a speech on the dangers of temptation. “You have responsibilities which supersede your personal desires.”

Solona could no longer bite back her irritation. “Do you really think I forget my responsibilities? You think there’s any waking moment I could do that, even if I wanted to?”

The mage shook her head. “Love is ultimately selfish. It demands that one be devoted to a single person, who may fully occupy one's mind and heart, to the exclusion of all else.” She put up a hand to ward off Solona’s angry interruption. “A Grey Warden cannot afford to be selfish. You may be forced to make a choice between saving your love, and saving everyone else, and then what would you do?”

“I’m not a child,” she snapped, aware that in this moment she sounded like one. “I’m not about to throw everything away because my head is turned.”

“Nothing is certain,” Wynne argued. “Not in these times. You cannot take anything for granted. I want you to be aware of this.”

“I’m aware of little else.” And that’s what made her defensive, she realised - her own doubts and fears, parroted back to her in the guise of wisdom. Abruptly, the fight went out of her. “So, what...you’re telling me to end it?”

“You may have to, to save one or both of you unnecessary anguish later on.” 

She’d done her best to keep him at arm’s length. To keep everyone at arm’s length, and it had been difficult, and tiring, and lonely. So, so lonely. “You were raised in the Circle,” she appealed. “Didn’t you ever want just one thing for yourself? Even if you knew it couldn’t last?”

“I did,” the older woman said sadly. “And it might have been easier for everyone had I not taken it.” She turned away, her years seeming suddenly to sit heavier than before. “I have given my advice. Do with it what you will.”

Solona looked back towards camp, catching Alistair watching her with a smile that squeezed her heart. It was too late, she realised, to avoid anguish. Perhaps it had always been too late.


	20. Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen/Hawke smut in all its dubious glory

_Kirkwall, 9:34 Dragon Age_

 

“Knight-Commander.”

Meredith looked up from her desk with a faint frown of irritation. “Cullen?”

“The mage that was made Tranquil this morning - I was present at her Harrowing.” It was perhaps a year ago but he remembered the girl, a young apprentice who had been at the Circle since adolescence.

The Knight-Commander’s lips thinned and she turned back to her paperwork. “And?”

“And?” Cullen hesitated, perplexed. “Well - she passed.” That much should have been obvious to his superior but he unwisely pressed on. “Mages cannot be forcibly made Tranquil after their Harrowing.”

“Thank you, Cullen, for educating me on Chantry Law.” Meredith smiled without a trace of humour. “The girl was a blood mage and a danger to all around her.”

“A blood mage?” Since his arrival in Kirkwall scarcely a week went by without some report of blood magic crossing his desk - thankfully most proved to be the product of an overly-imaginative witness or the result of a grudge, but all were investigated as thoroughly as possible. This was the first he'd heard of such practices within the Circle. “But there was no trial - the First Enchanter -”

“Orsino’s judgement cannot be trusted in such things.” Meredith dismissed the First Enchanter with a flick of her wrist. “We cannot allow blood mages to dwell amongst us while we wait for an impartial judgement from the Chantry in Val Royeaux. We face a war here, Cullen - I thought you understood that. Was I mistaken?”

“Of course not. But there are rules in place for a reason -”

“The mage’s transgressions were witnessed by two templars,” she snapped. “Is the word of your brother templars not evidence enough for you?”

“If I could perhaps be permitted to speak with the witnesses next time before such a step is taken -”

“They spoke to me.” Exasperated, Meredith pushed away the report she had been writing. “You have enough duties, Cullen. You need not take on the responsibilities of others as well.” Her glare softened. “The Divine is aware that we face a unique set of challenges here in Kirkwall. She has given us a certain amount of discretion to act as we think best in cases such as this.”

“The Divine?” he said with surprise. “I had not heard -”

“And now you have,” Meredith replied in a tone that brooked no further argument. “May I carry on with my work, Cullen, or would you prefer to write these reports yourself considering that you know my job better than I do?”

“Of course, Knight-Commander. I apologise.”

 _Maker, Cullen, whose side are you on?_ he thought to himself as he strode away.

 

* * *

 

“Cullen…”

He woke with a start. The stone floor was hard and cold beneath his cheek.

“Over here, Cullen.” There was a tinkle of female laughter. “We've been waiting for you, sleepyhead.”

Cullen sat up, groaning. “Solona? Is that you?” The familiar shelves of Kinloch Hold library swam into view and he felt a moment’s wild panic. But wait…there was no pulsing cage, no blood on the floor, no corruption climbing the walls. Looking down he found himself clad in the linen shirt and sleeping pants he'd worn to bed.

“Not just me.” Blearily he turned towards the voice. His first impression was of skin, pale and olive limbs entwined atop the low reading bench. Grey eyes and brown regarded him curiously.

“You know my cousin, Cullen.” Solona’s fingers trailed down the other woman’s side. “Say hello, Bethany.”

Bethany Hawke smiled languidly as Solona kissed her neck. “Hello, Cullen.”

“What is this?” Bethany shouldn't be here - none of them should be here. “It's a dream. You're not real.”

Solona sighed, disappointed in him. “But it's such a nice dream. Won't you join us?” Her hand slipped between Bethany’s legs. “Tell him what a nice time we're having, Bethany.”

“Mmmm.” The girl's eyes fluttered closed, opening only to regard Cullen through lowered lashes. “It would be so much nicer if he'd join us.”

“You hear that, Cullen? She wants you. Haven't you thought about how these pretty tits would feel in your hands? We know you have.” She cupped one full breast in her hand, trapping the pink nipple between her fingers. “They're so soft, Cullen. And she tastes so sweet. Sweet little Bethany.” Her eyes became sharp. “Wait - I know what you need.”

He looked back to Bethany, her face suddenly vacant. She sat up slowly and his eyes were drawn to the sunburst brand on her forehead.

“No. I don't…”

“I'm yours, Knight Captain,” she said dully. “Command me.”

“I wouldn't,” he protested but now he was watching himself, standing naked before the tranquil mage, a hand in her hair and his face impassive as he pushed her down towards his crotch.

“Why not?” Solona whispered in his ear. “Everybody else is doing it.”

“No.” But he couldn't look away as her lips stretched around his cock.

“It's not like they're people. Isn't that what you said, Cullen? This is what you want. A world where they can't rebel. Can't think. Can't say no.”

Bethany gagged - he was fucking her mouth now, hands fisted in her hair as he drove against the back of her throat.

“Stop this,” he cried. “This is monstrous.”

“Monstrous, Cullen?” Solona’s arms wrapped around him, her breasts pressed against his back as her hand snaked down his belly. “Then why are you so _hard?”_

 

* * *

 

“No!”

He awoke with his hand on his cock, recoiling from himself when he realised. There was a pounding on the door.

“Knight-Captain!”

“I'm fine!” he barked. It wasn't true - he was uncomfortably hard, revulsion and arousal crowding his brain until he could barely think straight. Usually the lyrium suppressed the urges of his body and the fact that it was his repulsive nightmare that had stirred him so was a source of deep shame.

“Knight-Captain, you're needed.”

Of all the blighted… “Wait.” He rolled from bed. A cloak hung on a peg by the door - it would make for a spectacle over his sleeping garb but at least it would offer him some decency. He flung the door open. “What?”

The young templar did his best not to quail. “I am sorry to trouble you so late, Knight-Captain.”

“Keran.” Hawke be damned, he should have thrown the boy out when he had the chance. “What's this about?”

“There's a disturbance in the courtyard, ser.”

“And this requires my attention why, exactly? You can't disperse a few troublemakers?”

Keran flushed with embarrassment. “Not a few, ser. One. She demanded to see you, and we could have tried to see her off, but…”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Tried?”

“We weren't going to see her off without some force, ser, and - it's Hawke, ser.”

“Andraste’s blighted -” He raked a hand through his hair, curls sticking up stubbornly from sleep. “Fine. I'll speak with the blasted woman.” He stomped past the hapless templar before turning. “Not the inner courtyard, I hope?”

“You'd hear her by now if she'd gotten that far, ser. She's…well, you'll see soon enough.”

By the time he had reached the courtyard within the Gallows proper he had worked himself into a fury. The sound of shouting reached his ears from the market area below.

“Cullen! Knight-Captain Cullen! Come out and face me, you fucking -” There was a crash, followed by muffled cursing. “Cullen! I'm not leaving. I can wait all night, I don't care. Cullen!” Fists battered on the heavy portcullis.

“Hawke,” he snapped as he approached. “What in the Void do you think you're doing?”

“You!” She staggered. “Let me in.”

“I certainly will not. You're drunk.”

“You have my sister. My sis-” Hawke crouched, only her fingers on the bars holding her upright. “I need her,” she said brokenly. “Need Bethany.”

Maker, she was a mess. “Go home, Hawke. Come back in the daytime when you're sober.”

“No.” She clawed her way upright, jaw set stubbornly. “I wrote. I came - nobody would see me. I'm going…nowhere.” Her blue eyes were rimmed with red. “Her funeral, they wouldn't let...I'm staying here.”

Cullen had denied Bethany's request in person. It would have been a simple thing, just to let her travel to the Chantry for a few hours, under escort. Terrible, what happened to her mother. But people died. They couldn't allow a mage out of the Circle every time there was a death in the family, some of them in far-flung places…making exceptions set a dangerous precedent.

She had thanked him for his time. Actually _thanked_ him.

“Wait there,” he growled. “I'm coming out.”

The templars on duty unlocked the side door to let him through. “Will you need any assistance, Knight-Captain?” one woman asked.

“I think not.”

“But she's -”

“Grieving,” he snapped. “Leave us be.”

“Very well, ser,” she said doubtfully. “We'll be here if you need us.”

Hawke was a puddle of shadow by the portcullis and he thought for a moment she might have fallen asleep. His relief was short-lived - what was he supposed to do with an unconscious Hawke? Then she turned towards him, straightening with as much dignity as she could muster.

“Here I am.” He crossed his arms. “Now talk.”

“Talk?” She smiled unpleasantly. “Careful what you wish for, Cullen. Where's my fucking drink gone?” Scowling, she began to search the ground.

“Seriously, Hawke? Don't you think you've had enough?”

“I'm awake, aren't I? So I can't have had enough.” Her unsteady path led her back towards the markets and he reluctantly followed, cursing the particular combination of luck and stupidity that had led him here. “There you are!” An earthenware bottle rested by a stack of crates and she picked it up with exaggerated care.

“What in the Void is that?” The fumes drifting from the bottle were enough to burn his nose. He reached for it and she snatched her hand away.

“Brandy. Get your own.”

“I'd rather not,” he said and Hawke made a noise of outrage.

“Too good for the Hanged Man’s brandy, Cullen?” She took a swig and winced before thrusting the bottle under his nose. “Go on.”

“Didn't you just say…? Fine.” It couldn't leave a worse taste in his mouth than the lingering dream, even if it burned like rage on the way down. “Blessed Maker, that's foul.”

“Bethany.” Hawke had regained focus. She sat heavily on top of a crate, her eyes piercing him. “You took my sister.”

“I had no choice.”

“You took her,” she insisted. “And I can't get her back.”

“No, you can't.” Cullen took another gulp of the disgusting brandy. “She's part of the Circle now.”

“Get fucked,” Hawke said dully.

“I am sorry about your mother.” Cullen sat beside her, passing the bottle back against his better judgement. “Truly.”

“She's dead. Did you hear how? He cut her up and stuck her head on a pile of dead women. I didn't stop it. Can't stop anything. Can't keep anyone safe.” She looked at him accusingly. “Bethany was supposed to be safe here. Mother begged me not to take her and I didn't. But she wasn't safe from you, was she?” A finger jabbed painfully in his chest. “Not from _you.”_

He would not feel ashamed. He would not. “The Circle is as much for the mages’ protection as -”

“However did we live, all those years without your _protection?”_ she sneered. “What made my father run away, when all you were concerned with was his protection? Help me understand, Cullen. Because all I know is that you came into our home and stole my sister. Our mother died without ever seeing her again and now I'm alone.” Her eyes filled with tears and he remembered how young she was, beneath that spiky exterior. “Everybody’s gone and I'm alone.”

“I…” He reached for her shoulder, relieved when she didn't draw a weapon on him. “You're not alone, Hawke. You have your friends.”

She barked with laughter. “My friends. Ever tried to herd cats, Cullen?”

“I can't say that I have.” It might be a similar experience to speaking with a drunken Hawke.

“No? Well that's my friends. A giant herd of fucking cats.” She sniffed. “And just like cats, they only like you when you're not looking at them. He left, the bastard, he came round and said he couldn't stop thinking of me and he fucked me and then he said it was a mistake and he fucking _left._ And now he's angry again, like it's my fault. Stupid fucking elf."

“I don't know who you're talking about, Hawke.”

“And fucking Anders, he says he'll drown everything in blood but do you think he'll just bend me over and _fuck_ me? The Void he will. Men, they're all fucking cowards.”

“Hawke, I think -”

“That's your problem. Too much thinking.” Her hand was on his knee and Maker help him, he remembered the press of Solona’s breasts against his back, and worse, and he was once more as hard as steel. “I hate thinking.”

Cullen stood abruptly. “Hawke. Alice.”

“Only my mother calls me that.” She rose to follow him, a dangerous sway to her hips. ”Called.”

“You should go home.”

“You don't want that.”

“Yes, I do.” He didn't. He wanted to be touched, to touch. He could feel her hand on his knee like a brand and confusion made him say the first foolish thing that popped into his head. “This won't help to get your sister back.”

Drink did not slow her reflexes - the blow snapped his head around before he even saw her move. “Fuck you, Cullen.” Before he could respond her hands had fisted in his cloak, her mouth smashing against his. She bit his lip and he tasted blood.

She was strong - he wasn't sure if taking off the cloak was an attempt to dislodge her or some darker impulse at work, but it was undone and he was throwing it on the ground. “You're drunk.”

“And you're hard.” She slipped a nimble hand down the front of his pants, pumping his length with a twist to her wrist that made his knees weak. “What are we going to do about that?”

“Stop.” Cullen pulled her hand away. He seized both her wrists but couldn't keep her body from pressing against his, an unbearable friction against his straining erection. Her lips found his again and he was kissing her back like a man starved.

He pushed her, advancing into her space until the backs of her legs bumped into an empty crate. She helped him to get her leggings down around her thighs and then he knelt before her as if in prayer, his hands cupping her firm buttocks.  

“Andraste preserve me.” But it wasn't Andraste, not Solona, not Bethany but _Hawke,_ her cunt so close to his face he could smell her arousal. He ran the flat of his tongue up her slit, gathering the slick that was already seeping from her folds.

“Fuck, Cullen.” Her fingers carded through his hair, blunt nails scratching at his scalp. “You dirty boy.” She swayed on her feet as he pushed his tongue inside her, a hand shooting out behind her to steady herself. He was rusty at this but her shallow gasps were all the encouragement he needed. He spread her wide with his thumbs, tonguing her clit until she bucked and whined, the heady taste of her making his cock throb.

“Stop. Stopstopstopstop.” Hawke pushed him away, her breath heaving.

“What?” he demanded, irritated at the interruption.

“If I'm getting off,” she slurred, “you are too.” She turned and planted her hands flat atop the crate. Her perfectly rounded arse shone pale in the moonlight. “Come on then, Knight-Captain,” she demanded. “Show me how templars do it.”

 _Go back now,_ part of his mind screamed. _You've already gone too far._ But no, he was on his feet behind her, his fingers digging into her hips and his rigid cock sliding all too easily into her waiting heat.

“Fuck,” she cursed. He gave an experimental roll of his hips and she ground back against him. “For fuck's sake, Cullen, put your back into it.”

Painfully aroused and with nerves still frayed from his nightmare, Cullen was in no mood for teasing. He grabbed a handful of her short hair. “Is this what you want, Hawke?” he snarled. He snapped his hips sharp against her, forcing a cry from her throat.

“Harder,” she spat.

She wanted it hard? Fine. He dragged her leggings off, kicked her feet apart and slammed back into her, channelling his rage, his frustration, his confused lust into each violent stroke.

Hawke met him thrust for thrust, hot and tight around him and oh, Maker, so wet, the slap of his balls against her so loud as to be obscene. He felt them tightening, his end fast approaching.

When he reached around to finger her clit she convulsed beneath him with a choked scream, and the ripple of her cunt undid him - he pulled out just in time, jets of his seed splashing her thighs and the crate beneath them.

It was over as fast as it had begun. They came back to sanity gradually, breathing in ragged gasps of air.

“I'm sorry. Shit. I shouldn't have done that.” Cullen stumbled back as though he was the one intoxicated, pulling up his trousers. “Maker, Hawke, forgive me.”

“Don't be such a fucking prude, Cullen. You fuck too well to be shy about it.” She wriggled back into her smalls and leggings, heedless of the mess he'd left. “We had an itch, we scratched it. It's that simple.”

“But you're drunk - I took advantage.”

“And you're…” Hawke looked him up and down. “What are you? At least as fucked up as I am, anyway. Don't flatter yourself, you couldn't take advantage of me with both hands tied behind my back.” She smiled crookedly. “You're welcome to try sometime.”

“Regardless, I was wrong.” Shame roiled in his gut, burning more fiercely than the brandy. “It was unforgivable.”

She shrugged. “For this, I forgive you. Not for the rest. And Cullen, if you tell anyone…”

“You'll cut my balls off?”

“You know me so well. You can keep the brandy.”

“Can you get home?”

“I'll swim.” She shook her head at his horrified expression. “I know a pirate, Cullen. If she hasn't gotten bored waiting around, she'll take me back across. Of course she's more pissed than I am so we might yet drown.” With a mocking salute she turned her back, walking with deliberate steadiness towards the harbour.

“Hawke!”

She sighed, looking over her shoulder. “What the fuck do you want now, Cullen?”

He cleared his throat. “Is there anything…can I pass on a message?”

Hawke hesitated, considering. “Tell her I'm sorry. No…tell her…fuck it. Just tell her something.”

She walked away and the last thing he saw was her middle finger, before she vanished into the shadows.


	21. Juliet

_Frostback Mountains, 9:41 Dragon Age_

 

There was something about the room that didn't feel right, but Juliet couldn't quite put her finger on what. Had something been moved? Added, or taken away? She cast a critical eye over the furnishings. Chairs covered in cushions and blankets faced the hearth, a sweet-smelling fire roaring there and casting a cosy glow over the scene. Plain but sturdy shelves packed with all manner of books, the table set with wine and fresh-baked bread, steaming soup ready to be ladled into two waiting bowls.

Outside an icy wind raged but the shutters were secure, not a hint of cold making it into their little haven.

 _Haven._ The word tickled something in the back of her mind. “Cullen, where did…?”

“What's that, my love?” The bed in the corner creaked as he sat up and stretched, languid as a cat. “Are you coming to bed?”

Tempting. He gleamed gold in the firelight, all coiled strength and smooth skin begging to be touched and tasted. But the sight of dinner had reminded her of the gnawing hunger in the pit of her belly. “Don't you want to eat first?”

“Of course, you must be starved.” With effortless grace he rose from the bed and padded over to her. It was difficult to focus on his face. Maker, why was she so tired? There were his full lips in a crooked smile, bisected by that familiar pink scar. And his eyes, pools of dark gold made darker by desire.

 _Desire._ She shook her head in an attempt to clear it.

“Are you alright, Jules?” Cullen's arms wrapped around her waist, his hands sliding underneath her shirt to rest tantalisingly on her bare skin.

“Maker, you're like a furnace!” She felt his chest, all but burning beneath her touch, and he laughed, bending down close to her ear.

“You're so cold,” he murmured, his voice like liquid silk. “Let me warm you.”

“No.” That wasn't his voice. This...none of this was real. 

And just like that it was gone. She was half-buried in the snowdrift into which she'd fallen, weary and sore and chilled to the bone. But carried away on the wind she fancied she heard the disappointed shriek of Desire, and she smiled grimly as she struggled to her feet.

“Try harder, bitch,” she muttered.

Now, which fucking way was she going?

 

* * *

 

At first she thought it was another demon trick. The embers of a fire, not enough to warm her but enough to spark a wary hope. Then people, an all-too familiar voice shouting “It's her!”

“Bollocks, not this again,” she muttered as she found herself scooped up into strong arms.

“What's that, Herald?”

 _Herald._ In no secret fantasy would Cullen call her Herald, and demons weren't subtle enough to conjure the shadows beneath his eyes. “Real,” she said, her voice cracked and hoarse. “It's real.”

“All too real, I'm afraid.” Cullen somehow struggled out of his furred mantle and draped it over her, all while keeping her safely tucked against his chest. “But Maker, I'm glad to see you.”

There was such tender relief in his tone that she wondered for a moment if she really was falling prey to a demon - the real Cullen would never speak to her like that, soft and husky. Then she slipped into oblivion.

 

* * *

 

_“I'm glad to see you.” His breath was hot on her neck and his hands roamed over her naked skin. They pressed together on her single bed in Haven, lips and tongues tangling together in an increasingly frantic embrace while outside voices were raised in song. The Dawn Will Come._

_“Why are they singing?” she gasped as his calloused fingers ran up the inside of her thigh._

_“It doesn't matter.” His eyes met hers, fierce and hungry. “Juliet…”_

_His hand slipped between her legs and pleasure coursed, sharp and sudden as lightning, through her body._

_“Cullen!”_

“Herald?” The voice she heard was unmistakably his, lacking the breathy fervour of her dream. “Lady Trevelyan?”

Reluctantly she coaxed her heavy lids open. Gritty eyes focused on the Commander, his brows creased with concern.

“I'm sorry,” she croaked. “I had a nightmare.”

“I am hardly surprised.” Cullen rose stiffly. “Let me fetch the healer. You have exerted yourself too soon after your trials, we should have -”

“No,” she protested weakly. “I don't need more healing. Perhaps if we could spare a small tent, rather than keeping me in the infirmary. There must be people more in need of attention.”

Cullen paused, uncharacteristically indecisive. “Herald, your injuries - ”

“Have healed.” She sat up, disguising her wince at the complaint of overtaxed muscles. “What I need is a decent night's rest. There's too much coming and going here, it's impossible to sleep properly. I'm sorry if I sound selfish…”

Instantly he was contrite. “Not at all, Herald. Next time we stop for the night I will see that you can rest in privacy. I am sorry that this didn't occur to me earlier.”

“You've been wonderful,” she said, then amended with a blush, “you've all been wonderful.”

“Should I leave you in peace, then?” He turned to go.

“No!” Dawn light was beginning to break through the canvas - it would be time to get up soon enough. “I mean, I'm awake now. Don't leave on my account.”

“It's on your account I'm here,” he admitted, taking his seat again. “A scout said you were restless, and I thought perhaps a fever, or - ” He fell suddenly silent, all but squirming in discomfort.

“You can say it.”

“I apologise, Lady Trevelyan. You have been Harrowed, I should not suspect such a thing. Indeed, I didn't, but…”

“Better safe than sorry, right?” She stifled a cough, not wanting to give him further cause to fuss over her. Briefly she wondered what would make him more uncomfortable, to think that her restless sleep was the result of demon activity, or to know that she'd been dreaming of the two of them writhing in a naked embrace.

“Is something funny?” Cullen watched her with a disapproving frown.

“Oh no, not funny.” Juliet fought her smile back into submission.

He looked searchingly at her face. “There was a Trevelyan in the Kirkwall circle. A templar. I don't suppose…?”

“Michael? My brother.”

He huffed in amusement. “Well that explains the chip on his shoulder.”

“Why?” she asked. “Because he's a noble?”

“No, because you're - well - ” Realising his faux pas too late, Cullen stammered to a halt.

“A mage,” she said helpfully, as if perhaps he'd forgotten the word. “You didn't know that?”

“There were many men and women under my command in Kirkwall,” he replied a touch defensively. “I didn't see the need to dig too far into their backgrounds unless they gave me cause.”

“Michael didn't give you cause, then.” Of course he didn't. Even as a child, Michael never strayed far from the rules. 

“He was - is - a loyal templar. There was never any indication he sympathised with the mages,” he said stiffly, ignoring her derisive snort, “but nor was he involved in any abuse of power under my watch.”

“From what I've heard that would place him in the minority.”

She regretted her thoughtless words when his expression became shuttered. “Kirkwall was not an easy place. I wouldn't expect you to understand.”

Outside the camp was beginning to stir to life, the Inquisition’s diminished forces readying for another day's march in the snow. Sighing, Juliet swung her legs from the cot.

“Solas says the fortress shouldn't be far now,” she said in an effort to change the subject.

“Do you trust the word of that apostate?” Cullen jumped up to help her down, but she waved him off.

“I'm an apostate,” she reminded him gently.

“Well, yes.” Once more on the back foot, he raised a flustered hand to his neck. “But not by choice.”

Juliet shrugged on her coat, glancing up at him before she began to lace her tall boots. “Choice was one luxury I was not afforded,” she said with a smile to soften the barb. “It's a story you're familiar with, I'm sure.”

Cullen's eyes darkened with something like shame. “Indeed,” he said shortly. “I won't disturb you any longer, Herald. Give the word when you are ready to march.”

 _Forget that one, Trevelyan,_ she thought as she watched him depart. _Too much history._

At the same time she remembered strong arms lifting her, a husky _Maker, I'm glad to see you._


	22. Solona

_ The Deep Roads, 9:30 Dragon Age  _

“Are you awake?” 

Solona’s eyes flickered open, finding only the persistent inky darkness of the Deep Roads. “I am now,” she complained. “Is it time to get up?” 

“I have no idea,” Alistair confessed. “I'm sorry, you were thrashing around so much I thought you might have woken up already.”

She rolled to face him, the better to keep their whispered conversation private. “I must have been dreaming. Sorry if I woke you.”

“You didn't,” he reassured her. “But it's difficult to go back to sleep with a beautiful girl wriggling against you.”

She stifled a giggle, biting her lip. “It's been too long, hasn't it? I don't know what I miss more, daylight or sex.”

Alistair groaned softly. “I do.” He gasped as her hand snaked beneath his blankets, tracing his already stiff length through the fabric of his leggings. “Oh, Andraste’s…you don't have to do that.”

“But I do,” she whispered shyly. “I want to.”

“Seriously,” he gasped. “I don't know when we'll get a chance to bathe again, and I don't want to make a mess…”

“I've thought of that.” She shuffled down the bedroll, determinedly working at his laces. 

“What are you…? Oh,  _ Maker.” _

“Shhh.” She licked again at his swollen head. “I need you to be quiet.” Still, he couldn't stifle his soft groan as she took his girth between her lips.

It was a madness that drove her, the crushing oppression of all that stone above and around them, the uncertainty of whether they would ever see the sky again. Each day their doom seemed more certain and she wouldn't let him die without feeling the proof of her love, her desperate need for him. 

He reached down and ran his fingers through her hair, and she wasn't even self-conscious about its greasy, unwashed state. Down here everything was primal, feral, the gore and grime as much a part of them by now as their skin. Instead she revelled in the scratch of his blunt nails against her scalp as she took him deeper, wiry hairs tickling her nose and her senses filled with the dark, animal musk of him. The squeeze of her thighs couldn't relieve the tension at her core and she slid a hand between her legs, pressing hard against the ache until she shuddered, swallowing down every trace of his salt-bitter spend. 

Alistair tugged her up to his shoulder, hiding his uneven breath in her hair. “What did I do to deserve that?” he whispered raggedly. 

“Just for being you.” She kissed the corner of his mouth. “And for not thinking I'm possessed any time I have a bad dream.”

“If any of us here are in thrall to a desire demon, it's me,” he joked weakly. 

“I think despair would have an easier time with me down here.” Solona burrowed into his warmth and his arm around her tightened. 

“That bad, huh?” 

She shivered. “I can't stand it. The dark, and the stale air, and the stink. I can't breathe in here. Is this what being a Warden is like?” 

“Not all the time, no. And not normally this bad. But yes, this is more or less what we do.”

“I don't want to die down here,” she whispered. 

“Hey!” He tilted her face towards his, although they couldn't see each other in the black darkness. “Nobody is dying down here.”

“Perhaps not this time. But one day…it's how we go, isn't it? Wardens?”

“Enough of that,” he chided. “Despair, I forbid you from possessing this woman.”

“Thank goodness there's a templar down here to slay me if I go mad.”

“I'm not a templar!” he protested. “And I wouldn't do that.”

“You wouldn't put me down?” she demanded, incredulous. “If I was an abomination?” 

“Why are we even talking about this? You're not an abomination and you won't become one.”

“But if -” 

“No.” Alistair was firm. “I'm not discussing this. It's not going to happen, and if it did I'd find another way.”

“There is no other way.”

“Connor -” 

“Is not the best example. How many died in Redcliffe?” 

“This is stupid.” He turned his back to her. “There's no point talking about it.”

_ You may be forced to make a choice between saving your love, and saving everyone else, and then what would you do? _

“I'm sorry,” Solona whispered to his back. “I would never make you choose such a thing.” She wrapped an arm around his broad chest. “There's no demon here, just ordinary old despair. It will pass.”

She felt him hesitate before he linked his fingers with hers, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. “It will. We'll do what we came to do, and we'll see the sun again. I promise.”

 

* * *

 

_Frostback Mountains, 9:30 Dragon Age_

It took weeks to deliver on that promise, weeks of darkness, filth and horror until one evening they stumbled out of Ostagar, even the dying twilight hurting their eyes. 

“I can’t talk about it just yet,” Solona mumbled in response to their companions’ questions. “Perhaps in the morning. In the daylight.”

“We should have stayed in Ostagar long enough to have a bath somewhere,” Alistair mused after dinner, sniffing at his clothes in disgust.

“There’s a stream,” she pointed out. 

“It’ll be cold.” It was an understatement - snow lay in patches on the ground and the night air was frigid.

Solona took a deep breath, letting the icy cold fill her lungs. “I’d rather freeze to death than stay down there a moment longer.”

He drew her into the circle of his arms. “It was hard on you, wasn't it?” 

She shivered. “The things we saw…”

“Not just that. The Deep Roads. The dark.” Kissing the top of her head, he tightened his embrace. “But look, the world's still up here. The sky. And tomorrow we'll see the sun.”

“Sun,” she sighed wistfully. “I was starting to think it was something I'd made up.”

“Come.” Alistair’s hand on the small of her back steered her towards the creek. “Let's at least meet the sun with some of this darkspawn filth cleaned away.”

Solona cast a fire rune on the ground and summoned wisp lights to compensate for the weak moonlight, and they sat cross-legged by the stream dipping rags in the icy water and carefully wiping the grime from every inch of exposed skin. 

“The first inn we come to,” she said as she worked a bar of hard yellow soap through Alistair’s short hair, “we're taking a bath.”

“Just one bath for the two of us?” he asked hopefully. “I won't object.” He took advantage of her raised arms to run his hands down her waist. “Are you very tired? It's just that we'll have a tent tonight. All to ourselves. I thought perhaps…” He smiled bashfully. “I could do all the work, if you'd like.”

She kissed him, soapy hands sliding around the back of his neck. “Being with you isn't work.”

“I'm just saying,” he said huskily, “I've missed your body. I want to see you, and touch you. I want it more than the sun.”

Between her thighs, Solona felt the faint throb of desire begin to build. Her body shifted to fit against him, making a low noise of satisfaction when his lips slid over her neck. “I think I'd like that too.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

 

* * *

 

The morning sun broke through the clouds, pale and weak but warm on her skin, the most perfect thing she'd ever felt. Well, nearly the most perfect. 

Around her Dog bounded in circles, throwing himself onto the ground with puppyish abandon. He leaped up as Wynne passed, leaning hard enough against her legs to nearly throw her off balance. With a long-suffering sigh, the mage bent down to scratch his back. 

“You look better already,” she remarked. “The sunshine agrees with you.”

“Then I've joined the wrong profession,” Solona half-joked. 

Wynne’s glance fell on the tent where Alistair still slumbered. The younger mage sighed, bracing herself for a lecture, but Wynne shook her head gently. 

“I have watched you for a time and perhaps I was wrong,” she said. “There seems to be something special between the two of you. He seems less guarded when in your company. Allows himself to relax. And he seems genuinely happy.”

“He is.” Solona blushed. “We both are.”

“I think I was too harsh in my judgement before, and I am sorry.” Wynne pursed her lips thoughtfully. “What you have may not last forever; death or duty may part you. But love’s worthiness is not diminished because of that. I should have seen this before. Instead you learn to cherish every precious moment that you spend together, knowing that it may be the last.” She smiled fondly. “And for those of us watching - well, it brings warmth to these old bones, to know that something so beautiful can be found in the midst of chaos and strife.”

“Strife?” Alistair’s tousled head emerged from the tent. “It's too early in the morning for strife, surely. Do I need my sword?” 

Wynne looked indulgently at the young warden. “I was just remarking to your young friend here, that now you have all the armies listed in your treaties.”

“Oh yes,” he grumbled as he got to his feet. “Now we just need to defeat Loghain and unite the kingdom. Simple.”

“Have you given any thought to what happens next?” 

“Next? I was hoping we might kill the archdemon and, you know, save the world.” Alistair scratched his ribs, yawning. “But honestly, right now I can't think far beyond breakfast. Anything that’s not dried nug would be welcome. Ideally not nug at all. I don't suppose there's cheese?”

“If there is, it's probably nug cheese.” Solona laughed at his grimace, taking his rough, warm hand in hers. “Come on, let's see what's cooking.”


	23. Cullen

_Kirkwall, 9:38 Dragon Age_

 

 _Oh, Maferath’s…_ Cullen felt the morning’s headache return as he saw who awaited him in his office.

“What can I do for you, Hawke?”

She smirked, leaning back in his chair with her booted ankles crossed neatly on top of his desk. “Quite a bit, if I remember correctly.”

“That seems unlikely, considering the state you were in.”

Hawke rolled her eyes. “If that’s an attempt to shame me, Cullen, I think it reflects rather worse on you. Taking advantage of a vulnerable, defenceless - “

“Defenceless? Ha!” Variations of this conversation had been played out enough over the intervening years that Hawke no longer had the power to make him feel shame over their sordid encounter - which, knowing Hawke, was probably her plan all along. He took the chair across from her, relieved enough at the opportunity to sit that he ignored the fact she had turned him into a petitioner in his own office. “I assume there is a point to this visit?”

“Oh, there’s always a point.” She had the grace to take her feet down, instead planting her elbows on the desk and resting her chin in her hands. “You look bloody awful, has anyone told you that?”

“Not with your tact and charm, they haven’t.” He wasn’t about to tell her that he’d been on reduced lyrium rations for several weeks. Let the woman mind her own bloody business for once. “Are you going to tell me, or do I have to guess?”

“Why guess when you could pry it out of me, hmm?” Her green eyes flashed wickedly. “Perhaps I’m looking for a repeat performance. You could bend me over this desk and tell me what a naughty girl I’ve been.”

“Nice try, Hawke. I know your interests lie elsewhere these days.” He couldn’t help his lip curling in disdain, and of course his guest noticed, her brow arching.

“Jealousy, Cullen, really? How trite.”

“Not jealousy,” he muttered. “Concern.”

“You watch your mages, and I’ll watch mine.”

“A fine job you did with that.”

“I could say the same.” She produced a dagger, the wicked edge gleaming, and began to clean under her fingernails. Despite her air of carelessness he could see his words had hit home, and he regretted his harshness. But Maker damn him, the man had destroyed half the city in his madness and she dared to shelter him?

“Just tell me you’re not in danger.”

“Have you ever known me not to be in danger?” she retorted. “I’m not afraid of Anders. He wouldn’t hurt me...at least, the one time he tried we kicked his arse. And those were unique circumstances.”

“Forgive me for saying so, Hawke, but you are the kind of woman who attracts unique circumstances.”

“You may be right.” She glanced over her shoulder toward the window. “Living in this blasted city doesn’t help. You were at the Ferelden circle, right?”

Cullen stiffened. “You know I was.”

“So was Anders. And as thin as the veil was there, he says it’s a thousand times worse here. And that was before...well.” Her nose wrinkled in annoyance. “It’s a miracle we’re not all mad.”

“Aren’t we?” he replied softly, and they shared a joyless laugh.

“Drink?” Hawke fished out a bottle of brandy and two glasses from a drawer, and he accepted before remembering that this was his desk. “Anyway, I’ve come to say goodbye.”

“How…?” Cullen hadn’t shared the news with his superiors yet - hadn’t, in fact, even gone as far as accepting the position. “I’m not leaving for a while yet.”

“You too, hey? Maybe we aren’t mad after all.” She clinked her glass against his with a force just short of shattering. “I meant me. I’m getting out of here before the wrath of the Chantry falls on us all. An Exalted March it may not be, but the heat is coming, and myself and my gaggle of apostates need to make ourselves scarce before then. Why I’m telling you this…”

“Because you see me as toothless, same as you always have.”

Unexpectedly, she took his hand and squeezed it. “Certainly not. You choose your battles wisely, that’s all. More so without old stone-face Meredith breathing down your neck. You managed to snatch my sister out from under my nose, didn’t you…?”

“Hawke, not this - “

“Hey, no hard feelings! I got her back in the end.”

“How is Bethany?”

“She’s fine, and I’m not telling you where she is.”

He sighed. “I didn’t ask. Things are...unclear at the moment. But as long as she keeps quiet, and doesn’t flaunt her powers, I see no need to track her down.”

The rogue snorted in typically unladylike fashion. “Have you ever known Bethany to flaunt anything? Except her bosom, perhaps - oh, don’t pretend you never noticed! Everyone knows you have a soft spot for my sister. Or a hard spot, more likely - “

_“Hawke.”_

“All in good fun, Knight-Captain. But you haven’t told me where you’re going.”

“No, I haven’t.” Unconsciously his hand went to his pocket, the missive warning of the pending collapse of the Nevarran Accord. This new Inquisition may not be the most stable of prospects, but the future of the templars was also looking increasingly shaky. If at least he could find something to believe in...wasn’t that why he joined in the beginning? “It’s time to move on from Kirkwall.”

“Past fucking time. I’ll drink to that.” And she did, throwing her head back as she drained the glass. She was a beautiful woman, he thought, not for the first time. Could they have been good for each other? It seemed unlikely that he could be good for anyone, but compared to an unstable, murderous apostate…

“Anders is a good man.” She regarded him steadily. “He did a bad thing, an unforgivable thing...but he was lost. It happens to the best of us at times.”

Flustered by her apparent insight into his thoughts, he cleared his throat in embarrassment. “Yes, well. You and I know what it’s like to kill. But we choose our targets a little more wisely.”

“Such as a Circle full of captive mages?” Sensing the return of a well-trodden argument, she held her hands up in conciliation. “Let’s not do this. We don’t want to end up shagging again, after all.”

“Not a chance, Hawke.” Not for the first time, he wondered if she knew that she was the last woman he’d been with. While she was off indulging in some tortured love affair with a wanted man, he may as well have taken a vow of chastity. The lyrium withdrawal was almost a welcome distraction. And there it was in vivid flashback, her pale thighs, the taste of her, the clench of her bearing down around him...it didn’t help when she unexpectedly pulled him into an embrace, her lips pressing against his clean-shaven cheek.

“Farewell, Cullen.” Finishing with a punch to his shoulder, she sauntered to the door. “We might meet again someday, when we least expect it. Hopefully not in fucking Kirkwall.”

When she was gone he took his own seat, still carrying her warmth. He poured himself another brandy and collected the implements of letter writing from his desk drawers.

 _Seeker Pentaghast,_ he began. _Further to your correspondence, I would be interested in meeting when you are next in Kirkwall..._


	24. Juliet

_ Skyhold, 9:41 Dragon Age  _

 

Alice Hawke was suitably tall for a hero, Juliet thought. Apart from that there was little about the woman that resembled Varric’s telling - hair more brown than raven, eyes more green than blue, a dusting of freckles over the bridge of her nose on skin that the book described in somewhat fawning terms as “flawless alabaster.”

She said as much to the dwarf, and he shrugged. 

“She's been in hiding, Freckles. What was I going to do, help them design the wanted poster?” 

“I didn't think she'd be so…”  _ Sad,  _ was the word that came to mind when she looked down at the rogue hunched over the battlements. “Serious.”

A flicker of pain crossed Varric’s face. “Yeah, well. That's not creative license. That's what life on the run with the most hated apostate in Thedas will do to you.”

She was real, then, the wise-cracking, irreverent Champion of Varric’s tales. Juliet was struck by the sudden need to draw her out, if only for his sake. She looked at the darkening sky - she had no engagements for the next few hours, and she knew the Inquisition’s liquor supply had been moved into what would shortly become the new tavern… 

“Do you think she'd join us for a drink?” she asked the dwarf, and he grinned wolfishly. 

“I know she hasn't changed that much.” He nodded towards Hawke. “Why don't you ask her?” 

That was how they came to be gathered around a barrel in a dusty space off the courtyard, pouring over-large quantities of Chasind sack mead into a motley assortment of vessels.

Hawke took a long, appreciative sniff from her tankard. “If I’d known this was the quality of Inquisition drinks, I’d have joined sooner.”

“It’s not, trust me,” Varric said, his legs dangling over the edge of an upturned cask. “Freckles has pilfered the good stuff for us. Does Flissa approve?”

“Flissa?” Juliet scoffed. “Save the life of a perfectly good bartender and she turns around and becomes a Chantry sister. How’s that for gratitude?”

Bull had been enlisted to help sort through the heavy stacks of supplies, and now he grunted appreciatively. “I’ve had bartenders and Chantry sisters,” he mused, “can’t say I’ve ever had both. Well, I’ve had both, just not, you know, the same person…” The Qunari fell silent, musing on the possibilities, and Hawke nudged Juliet.

“You’re right,” she said in an undertone, “he is a horde,” and Juliet saw the corner of Bull’s mouth twitch upwards.

“So, Hawke. I hear you’ve killed a few dragons.” His eye lit up. “What kind?”

“Oh, you know…” She gestured vaguely. “Large, angry.”

“There’s this one in the Hinterlands, Ferelden Frostback. Damn near kicked our asses a couple of times. Any tips?”

“Try not to die.”

He nodded ponderously, playing dumb. “I can use that. And you killed the Arishok?” At her wary expression he held his hands up. “Hey, no hard feelings. I never knew the guy. How did that go down?”

“Not like you might have read,” she sighed with a long-suffering glare for Varric. “Let's just say I didn't feel very heroic.”

“Dashing, ducking, dodging, sword sweeps too close, Maker, he's going to kill me…Isabela owes me a drink.”

“Isabela still owes me a drink.” Hawke stared flatly at Cole. “Who the fuck are you?” 

“Uh, this is Cole. Kid, this is Hawke, but I guess you already know that.” 

“Was he…not here a second ago, or am I drunker than I think I am?”

“Yeah, he does that. He's a spirit,” Varric explained awkwardly. “We think.”

“Well that's fucking great. I love spirits.”

Cole was quiet, staring at Hawke from beneath his hat. Juliet knew the boy's insights could be discomfiting, but she was compelled to defend him. “He's not dangerous. At least, not if you're on our side.”

“Where have I heard that before?” There was little animosity behind Hawke’s words, but she hated the tired resignation in the older woman's voice. 

“Why don't you come sit with me, Cole?” She shuffled across as far as she could; the boy's hat took up more room than he did. “So it sounds like parts of Varric’s book were…”

“Total bullshit?” 

“Hey!” the dwarf protested. “A few details were changed to protect the innocent, that's all.”

Hawke snorted. “Well I'm glad you protected them, whoever they were.”

“The first draft was closer to the truth,” Varric said with a wink. “I tried to get it published as a serial in the Randy Dowager but they said it was too salacious.”

This finally made her laugh out loud. “Hawke Fucks Everyone: A Tale of the Champion.”

“Hey, now,” he said. “You didn't fuck  _ everyone.” _

“True.” She began to count on her fingers. “Not you. Or Sebastian…not for lack of trying, mind you…Aveline…”

“Merrill,” the dwarf supplied helpfully. 

Eyes averted, Hawke took a long pull of her drink. 

“Hawke?” 

Reddening, she shrugged. 

_ “Hawke.”  _

“Hmm?”

“You and Daisy?” 

“Just once,” she mumbled. 

“Maker's breath, Hawke!” 

“Merrill is an adult, capable of making her own decisions…”

“I know. That's why I'm surprised she went for you.”

“I'm wounded.”

“Was this before or after Curly?” 

“You know…” She drummed her fingers on the tabletop. “It's hard to say. Things are a little hazy around that time.”

“Wait.” Juliet sat up straighter. “Curly? As in…?”

“The very same, Freckles,” Varric confirmed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “I guess there's working equipment under all that plate after all.” Her blush only served to encourage him. “How was he, Hawke?” 

“Varric! A lady never tells.”

“So…?”

“Outstanding.” She glanced at Juliet in a manner entirely too shrewd for comfort. “Of course I couldn't tell you what he's like in  _ bed…”  _

Varric shook his head in mock disapproval. “Hazy, she says.”

Cole frowned, glancing from Juliet to Hawke. “She wants to know -” 

“Cole,” Juliet said quickly, “why don't go you see if anyone needs help.”

“But you need help,” he protested, confused. “It's been too long since -” 

“Not  _ now, _ Cole!” 

She was sorry to see the hurt on the spirit’s face, before he was abruptly gone. Hawke stared around in bewilderment. 

“What's he a spirit  _ of,  _ exactly?” 

“Embarrassment,” she muttered.

 

“You're staring again, boss.”

Juliet shook herself out of the trance she'd fallen into. “Am not.” Reluctantly she dragged her eyes away from where Cullen briefed the scouts for their journey. “Where's Varric?” 

“I'm right here!” came the annoyed answer. “Honestly, if you weren't busy undressing the Commander with your eyes -”

“I'm on a horse!” she protested. “If you were saddled up and ready to go like the rest of us, I'd have seen you earlier.”

“Forgive me if I'm not in a hurry to gamble my life.” The dwarf scowled at his rangy Highland pony, and the mount returned his glare. He began the undignified process of climbing onto the fractious animal’s back. 

“If you'd just admit that would be easier from a crate…”

Varric only grunted in response, then howled in outrage as Bull’s massive hand took him by the collar and hauled him into the saddle. “Maker's breath, Tiny, are you trying to get me killed?” 

Sera grinned in the way that promised a terrible joke had just occurred to her. “If anyone’s saddled up and  _ ready to go _ it's you, Inky.”

Juliet glared. “That doesn't even make  _ sense.” _

“Course it does,” the elf insisted. “Speaking of which…”

“Inquisitor.” Smiling broadly, Cullen made his way over to them. “All prepared?”

She shot a quick look of warning at Sera. “I think so, Commander. I'm sure Harding will have thought of everything.”

He nodded, absently rubbing the nose of her Ferelden Forder. “What do we know about this friend of Hawke’s, exactly?”

“You've read the same reports as the rest of us, Cullen.” She found herself distracted by the lewdest of thoughts. Hawke and Cullen…the Champion’s fingers buried in his curls, his lips parted against her pale neck, bodies grinding together in the damp Kirkwall heat. She could just picture his face the moment he - 

“Freckles?” Varric’s smug amusement broke through her reverie. “You're drooling,” he said in an undertone. 

“Shut up,” she muttered. 

“Inquisitor?” 

“Not you,” she assured Cullen. The horse whinnied and shook her head, and Juliet leaned to stroke her neck. 

“You're looking very confident in the saddle these days,” he observed. “Perhaps we might ride together some time, when you return?” 

Behind his back Sera's eyes bulged, and Juliet was sorely tempted to freeze her mouth shut before she could blurt out her thoughts. 

“I didn't take you for a horseman,” she answered politely. 

His laugh was warm and unexpected. “Oh, I'm a foot soldier through and through. I only ride for pleasure.”

Varric was struck by a sudden coughing fit.

“Well in that case, I'd be delighted.” Maker, suddenly it seemed a lot warmer in the courtyard. She offered her hand and he clasped it, golden eyes meeting hers with a hint of…what? There was no time to analyse before he released her, his fingertips barely brushing her thigh before returning to the pommel of his sword. 

“Maker watch over you, Inquisitor.” She had half expected a stammered apology, but there was no acknowledgement of the strangely familiar touch. Just a small bow before he strode away. A curve to his lips like just maybe, he'd known exactly what he was doing. 

“I mean, are you talking about horses or not?” Sera was saying as they made their way over the bridge. “Cos if it was me saying that stuff, or Bull, or probably Dorian, it'd be definitely about fucking. But when it's him -” 

“Horses,” Juliet said quickly. “He's talking about horses.”


End file.
